The 1st Hunger Games: A New Era Dawns
by President Snowflake
Summary: "Killing adults serves no purpose. Most of them can retain some sense of dignity, can hide their fear, make it appear as though they are dying for a greater cause." "And your point?" "My dear president. We simply kill the children." The districts are out of line and they must be punished. Twenty-four children are sent into an arena with one rule in mind: Kill or be killed.
1. The Capitol's Control

**Orion Hausler, President of Panem**

This room is cold, and completely dark save the soft glow that emits from the screen hanging on the black wall. The control panel in front of me is silver, cool to touch, and the few chairs scattered throughout the room are plain, grey, and metal. My tailbone throbs from prolonged contact with the seat; no soft cushions or sleek armrests here, not like what the president's mansion contains. No, it was made clear from the moment I entered this room: here is not a place for relief and comfort. It is for harsh, merciless justice.

My fingernails dig deeply into my thighs as, onscreen, movement occurs. A door opens into the bleak cell the camera films and in march a large group of people. One, two, three, _twenty-four_. I know exactly how many there are. I flew to each and every district, looked every citizen in the eye and made my decision. _There. Those two. The woman in dark brown and the man with the missing arm. _Each district's very own president and vice-president. The leaders of the rebellion; the ones that were meant to steal my job and take my life. But they failed. Foolish of the districts to ever think that they could hide their commanders from the Capitol. From _me_. To most, they may look like average citizens, but I can always tell. That haughty glimmer in their eyes, that confident spark that tells of the power they once wielded – it always gives them away.

The prisoners come to a halt just as the last one enters, forming a line across the room of the twenty-four most despicable men and women in Panem. Now through the doors come twenty-four of Panem's finest, guards in crisp white uniforms that contrast sharply with the solid black of the guns in their hands. Some are limping, others barely concealing grimaces as pain flares up with every step they take. Most are still recovering from injuries they received in battle, but no matter the degree of their wound, each and every one jumped at this opportunity when I presented it to them. They have the honour of bringing this nation back to peace. And they have the chance to take revenge, for every dead relative, friend and co-worker they ever knew.

Unlike their stumbling prisoners, the soldiers keep the rhythm of their march nearly perfect, and the sound of footsteps ceases all at once as each guard comes to a stop in front of their respective charge. The dark wall behind the rebels looks the same as every other, but instead of plaster and wood, it's made from a special, spongy material developed some time ago, designed to absorb bullets rather than repel them. At the time, I hadn't thought it useful for much – but in situations such as this, it is perfect. No public execution for these rebels, oh, no; the risk of turning these traitors into martyrs is too great. Better to spirit them away from their homes, hide them out here, underground, and conduct the execution in an orderly fashion. Of course, the citizens of the districts will still know what went on, but this way, no last words shall be said, no final commands for their followers or ending insults for their enemies. It will be as though the rebellion never took place.

"Wait." The guards have their guns outstretched, ready to use, yet they pause as my voice echoes through the room they stand in. I keep my finger on the intercom button. "Remove their hoods."

Without question, the soldiers comply, each marching forward and roughly ripping the bags off of the prisoner's heads. My steel grey gaze darts to each and every rebel's face, searching for . . . what? Fear? Guilt? Regret? It is pointless, in any case; I should have guessed the traitors would be more skilled at keeping their emotions contained. And yet, behind each pair of hardened eyes, a palpable vortex of rage waits. Rage at the Capitol. Rage at me. Even after all the people they murdered, all the lives they ruined and destruction they caused, their twisted minds still find ways to pin the blame on others. It _disgusts_ me.

"Citizens of the districts." I have to fight to keep my tone steady; any breach detected over the intercom, any indication of anger in my voice will be taken as a weakness by these people. It will seem as if I care enough about their actions to hate them, and that is exactly the opposite of what I want; to quench this rebellion, and all remaining thoughts of any future revolt, I must stamp the flames out all at once, and give no indication that they ever affected this great country in the first place. "You know for what crimes you are here. But let it be known that your attempt at–" I pause almost unnoticeably, thinking over my words; using the term "rebellion" would not be wise, "–_anarchy_was futile. The nation is rebuilding, and things will be as they were once more. You will be forgotten, your misguided ideals disregarded, and life will go on."

"_Sweet child, sweet child, life will go on._

_But never forget that we've reached a new dawn._

_If life's wheel stops, dead in its tracks,_

_Always remember your parents' acts."_

My skin starts to burn, burn white-hot with uncontrollable fury. _How dare–? How could–?_ But my mind is raging, chaotic, unable to form a coherent thought. All I can hear is that song, that song sung by one – but now all the rebels start to join in, and playing out for me onscreen are twenty-four men and women standing proud and singing.

"_Sweet child, sweet child, carry our goal._

_Save the districts from the Capitol's control._

_Always dream of a better day,_

_Where you've killed the beast we fight today."_

"Do it." My finger slides across the intercom button, nearly slipping off; I don't feel any pain, and yet at some point, my hands formed fists, nails driving deep into the flesh of my palms and coating everything in warm, slick blood. "Do it now!" No further thoughts of monitoring my tone, watching my emotions; this is it, I want them _dead_. The guards ready their guns and, individually, each begins to fire. I'd ordered it like this originally, ordered it so I could look every rebel in the eye as they died, so I could see that last millisecond between life and death when their fear truly surfaced. But now, my gaze is focused solely on the woman in the middle. The one who seems to look straight at me, straight at the camera, even though she shouldn't be able to see it. The one who never flinches, even after the man next to her is shot in the head, splattering her with blood and brain matter. The one who began the song.

The soldier in front of her has his gun lifted high, fully prepared to shoot, yet he cannot resist spitting one final curse at his rebel charge. Because of her, he's stuck in a wheelchair; even the Capitol's doctors can do nothing to remedy this. And he hopes hell is ready, because for her, they'll have to pull out all the stops.

But then, right as he prepares once more to shoot, the woman moves. Not a large gesture, not a desperate bid for freedom, but the wrinkles beside her eyes ruffle, her lip twitches and she _smiles_. A condescending smile, as though she believes we're all children, and this is just a game she's allowing us to believe we're winning.

"Wait!" But I've failed to press the intercom button this time, and no one onscreen can hear me. So I watch as the soldier in the wheelchair shoots her, forever immortalising her smile. She showed no hint of fear; in fact, she died thinking she'd won. Even though the man missed, having not entirely angled the gun properly to account for their vast difference in height; the bullet plowed right through her jugular instead and with all the blood spraying from the wound, it must have hurt more than a clean shot to the head. But she still smiles. She will smile forever.

I'm barely aware of the rest of the executions as they take place, too focused on the puddle of blood in the centre of the room and the corpse that lies within. The smiling corpse. Forever smiling.

The last rebel leader is shot and the guards shove their weapons back into their holsters before turning and marching out. Not as perfectly in time as they were entering, though; a few look positively giddy with their fulfilled vengeance, others are in danger of falling over due to prolonged exertion on their injuries. The man in the wheelchair needs the help of another two soldiers to push him out; his wheels cannot navigate through the sea of splayed limbs and shattered skulls.

I sit back, my spine touching the chair's metal splat for the first time today. The pressure feels out of place, as though my muscles aren't ready to relax yet, are still pushing me to the edge of my seat. Yet there is nothing more to wait for. It is done.

Then why does it feel as if I've accomplished absolutely nothing?

"Sir?"

I jump, the sudden, soft voice so different from the explosive bedlam of the gunshots. It's almost reminiscent of the rebels' tones as they sung . . .

"Sir?" Daelianne Botterwurth inches her chair forward, entering my peripheral vision. One hand is held to the tiny headset in her ear, and other reaching forward to take my own fingers in their grasp. I allow the gesture, forcing myself to relax, only to realise I was just making fists again. Four deep, crescent-moon gashes line my palm, steadily dripping blood. Ever the wise vice-president, Daelianne doesn't mention the injuries; she always understands, always knows when I want to be left alone to grieve. So why is she talking now?

"Sir, I'm so sorry, but I've just received an update from Voros Juker."

The head of Technical Security? "What is it?" My voice sounds more strained than I'd like it too, as though my throat is closed and I've just been crying. Or am about to cry. And that would be a sign of weakness.

"He was just double-checking our connection to the cell camera. Apparently, someone hacked the feed."

"What?!" I nearly throw myself from the chair, rising and whirling around to face Daelianne. "Who? How? Did they . . .?" My mind is racing too fast for my mouth to keep up. _Was it the rebels? It must have been. Who else? Then why . . . oh, God. It was all a fabrication. They filmed an execution, and played that out for me to see while they spirited off the rebels! No, no, what about my voice over the intercom? What about the soldiers? I knew them, handpicked them, the rebels couldn't possibly fool me. Could they? No, they could; they're crafty, and now they're loose again, out there right _now _and-_

"Sir." Daelianne takes my hand once more, which is shaking uncontrollably along with the rest of my body. "Sir, look at me." My eyes, darting to every corner of the room as if I might find the escaped rebels hiding in the shadows, come to a stop once they meet Daelianne's pink gaze. "It's not the rebels. Juker's working on tracking the hacker down now, but he's certain it's someone in the Capitol."

That doesn't mean anything. No district citizens are allowed to set foot in the city, but still, they could be in hiding, purposely waiting after the rebellion as a sort of backup plan for the districts. "But the feed . . . The executions . . ."

Daelianne, having grown used to my faltering speech and turbulent thought process, is able to understand what I mean. "That was all real, sir. The footage wasn't tampered with at all. We have twenty-four soldiers to confirm it."

It takes me a moment to fully register her words, but when I do, it feels as if someone cut my strings; all of a sudden, the anxious adrenaline rushes out of my veins, leaving an exhausted, hollow husk behind. I collapse back into my empty chair, wearily looking back up at Daelianne. "You're sure?"

"Positive, sir."

Thank God. The execution may not have been as consoling as I thought it would be, but the thought of those rebels on the loose is far, far worse. Unconsciously, my mind wanders back to the woman who started the song and I clench my fists once more, only to stop as the sting of the previous cuts finally registers. _Don't get distracted. You still have a problem here._ "So why was the feed hacked?"

"Juker's not entirely sure, sir, but for all intents and purposes, it seems as though the hacker just wanted to . . ." Daelianne hesitates on the last word, a grimace twitching at the corners of her lips. "Watch."

It doesn't make any sense. We purposely made the executions private to both stop the districts from getting any ideas and save the Capitol citizens the pain of having to witness anymore violence. "And the identity of this mysterious hacker?"

"Juker's still working on it, sir. He says he should have them soon."

"Send a team out to bring this person in. I want to know who they are and what they want."

* * *

><p>The man's fingers never stop moving. As far as a Capitol citizen, his appearance is relatively normal; long, black hair piled tightly into a bun directly on the top of his head, dark makeup around the eyes, a series of curling tattoos etched into his skin at seemingly random intervals. The only things that stand out are his fingers. Even handcuffed to the desk in front of him, his hands never stop dancing along what little of the table's surface he can reach. The <em>tap, tap, tap<em> of his nails against metal is audible here in the observation room, and while I find it relatively easy to tune out, I can tell it's irritating both Daelianne and Voros.

"So this is our hacker," I mutter, staring hard through the one-way mirror separating us from the civilian. "What have you dug up on him?"

"Name: Yoriq Chentanko." Voros' tone is mechanic, as always, and straight to the point. "Age: 22. Currently unemployed. Address: 681 Fro-"

I wave a hand dismissively; none of this information is of any interest to me. What I need to know is, "Rebel connections?"

Voros stares at me for a moment, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Finally, he pushes his decorative spectacles further up his nose and continues, "None that we could find. The browsing history we found on his computer is . . . _disturbing, _to say the least, but there are no signs of attempted contact with the rebels. Nor is there anything on his phone. And given his behaviour when tapping the execution feed, I believe it is safe to assume that Mr Chentanko here is not in league with any district citizens."

_His behaviour when tapping the execution feed._ True, he may have done nothing to aid the rebel leaders, but nevertheless, I know something else is going on. No hacker who could infiltrate government computers would do so just to "watch". This Yoriq Chentanko has other motives; motives I intend to discover.

The clicking of the hacker's nails against the desk ring in my ears even as I turn away from the window. "I want to speak with him." I take care to purposely avoid Daelianne's concerned gaze. Though I'd like to think her worry is merely a product of my wish to interact with a criminal, I know better. Her slender blue eyebrows have remained furrowed in anxiety ever since my reaction to the execution earlier today. My lips form a grimace just at the thought. I am the president of Panem, leader of crowds sick of following, captain in a sea of anarchy – weakness is not an option. And yet time and time again, I've found myself unable to control my emotions. Daelianne has been present for almost all of these lapses in restraint, and it's beginning to grow embarrassing. What does she truly think of me, behind that mask of innocent concern? How long before she begins to question my capabilities of running a country?

However, neither Daelianne nor Voros argue as I step out of the observation room and stride a short ways down the narrow corridor outside before I reach the door to the interrogation room. The face scanners beep, flashing momentarily before confirming my identity, and the heavy, metal door swings inward.

The tapping of the man's nails stops at once. Silence rules the room as, for a moment, the two of us merely stare, each sizing the other up. His eyes are entirely black, no hint of whites or irises; one of the more unsettling fashion trends that has cropped up within the Capitol. It makes me feel as though I'm staring into the eyes of some enormous bug.

The hacker cocks his head to side, a glimmer in his eyes as though he can sense my unease. Then he smiles. "Took you long enough."

I frown, every muscle tensing at his words, his expression. As though he was hoping – _planning_ – for all this. _Who are you, Yoriq Chentanko?_ "Excuse me?"

His wrists may be bound to the table, but his legs are free, and the young man kicks at the chair across from him. "Well, come on, sit down." Another grin, showing teeth this time; teeth filed to disturbing points. "Don't let me stop you."

Pain flares in my palms as my nails grate against their previous cuts. By inviting me to sit, he has acknowledged the fact that I've been too apprehensive to approach him, yet doing so now would only be an act of submission. Instead, I merely narrow my gaze, swiftly closing the door behind me. "Yoriq Chentanko." Each syllable of his name is carefully emphasised, meant to bore deep into his mind – _you see how much we know?_ "I presume you know why you are here."

"Oh, obviously." The man leans as far back in his chair as he can and grins lazily. I don't buy it for one second. He may be good at putting on an act, may excel at maintaining this cool, unfazed façade, but his eyes glimmer with a cold malice even the colour alterations cannot hide. It's always the eyes that give them away. "But do _you_ know why I'm here?"

Fake or not, this nonchalant behaviour is beginning to get on my nerves. That, and the nasal, condescending tone of the hacker's voice. He's acting far more arrogant than any man chained to a desk in the middle of an interrogation room has any right to be. "Do _I _know why you're here?" My gaze never wavers from his as I slowly move forward, ignoring the chair to lean against the table instead. "I'd hope so, considering I ordered your arrest."

"Mm, well, hope is a funny thing, isn't it, Mr President?" I can't help the stiffening in my shoulders at his words, and Chentanko notes it with a smirk. "Fragile, intangible – and yet it nearly destroyed our entire country." With a sudden burst of energy, he stands and shoves his chair backwards, leaning towards me so that our noses nearly touch. "Tell me, do you want another rebellion?"

His question is so ridiculous that, for a moment, I'm shocked into silence. "Of course not," I spit back.

"Then crush the hope."

I don't know if he's intentionally speaking in riddles, but his response – no, no, _command_, it was clearly intended as such – grates against my ears and makes my blood boil. What right does this, this _criminal, _who is barely old enough to call himself a man, have to question my judgement? "It is all under control," I say, my voice deadly quiet as I try to maintain an even tone. "The leaders have been executed, as you saw when you hacked our feed. Which is why you are here."

"Please. I wanted to be here for my own reasons, or your so-called "Technical Security" wouldn't have ever caught me. Covering my tech tracks is something I can do in my sleep."

I stare at the man in front of me, completely floored by his egotism. He talks about government computers and cameras as though they're children's toys, to be snatched easily away and played with at will. My immediate reaction is, of course, disdain, paired with scorn and a heavy dose of irritation. But underneath it all, I'm furious to realise a part of me actually believes him; at least, believes he has an ulterior motive for being here. _He's part of the rebels, _I think, my heart sinking. _They're back and ready to restart a war. For all I know, this could even be one of their-_

"Now that is a funny thought." Chentanko has relaxed slightly, though he's still staring at me with that irksome smirk upon his lips. "You think I'm a rebel? An obvious assumption on the part of a paranoid president," he adds as I open my mouth to demand how he guessed.

"_Paranoid_?" The word is nearly a growl. "I am _not _paranoid."

"Then you're a fool." All at once, the playfulness disappears from Chentanko's tone, his mouth twisting into a hard, thin line. "Intelligent people know to be paranoid during times of crisis."

I don't know if I could possibly channel any more fury into my glare. "The crisis has _passed_."

"Really? So, you're telling me that back in the districts, people aren't going to make martyrs out of the leaders you executed? People aren't still carrying hope? People aren't still singing that song our rebels were so fond of?" I can feel the vein in my forehead twitch at his words, but this time, his smile is humourless. "They still believe they can win, Mr President. Because you haven't destroyed them."

"That's what you got yourself arrested for? So you could tell me to wipe the rest of the districts off the map just like Thirteen." _Just like Thirteen_ . . . if this man can truly do as he claims and hack our systems all while going by unnoticed, then how much does he truly know about the bombing?

"Please, don't waste my time being stupid." My hand twitches, as though yearning to form a fist to smash that patronising look off his face. It takes all of my willpower to refrain from doing so. "Obliterating the districts would only cause the Capitol suffering in the end. We rule them, yes, but goodness knows we could never get along without them."

His words hit a bit too close to home. Every time I blink, a new catastrophe headline pops up behind my eyelids. _Duskendawn Power Plant still held by District 5 rebels, siege underway: Capitol plunged into total darkness. Massive food shortages ravage the city, no fresh produce or meat coming in from outside. Rebel invasion imminent, evacuations impossible due to District 6 controlling the trains._

Chentanko watches me relive these memories, almost as though he can see them himself. "No, I don't want them eliminated. I want them beaten into submission."

The chill in his tone seems to lower the room's temperature by a dozen degrees. It's such a stark contrast to his earlier behaviour, even I can't help but pause at the change. What could a man his age possibly know about punishing the districts? I don't want to ask, am suddenly finding myself put off by the intensity his eyes now hold. I'll call Voros in here instead, get him to dish out the hacker's punishment; he's more familiar with the justice system for virtual crimes than I am. I could leave, breathe easy – and yet, for some reason, I find myself staying, straining to listen as Chentanko opens his mouth once more.

"I'd figured they wouldn't play nice even after we won, but the execution only confirmed it. Killing adults serves no purpose. Most of them can retain some sense of dignity, can hide their fear, make it appear as though they are dying for a greater cause."

The fact that he feels the need to specify killing _adults_ sets me on edge. "The point?"

"My dear president. We simply kill the children."

* * *

><p>"Sir, I don't like this." Daelianne nearly has to jog to keep up with me as I stride down the long hall. "This man is a criminal and, more importantly, I think something's wrong with his mind. Are you honestly considering-"<p>

"I'm not considering anything yet," I tell her sharply, adjusting my grip on the hacker's previously confiscated laptop. "I just want to see what he has in mind."

"Why?"

_Because he's right. Because killing the leaders didn't stop the rebellion. The districts will go to war once more. And we can't survive another. Peace is always better, no matter what the cost._ But the words stick in my throat even as I open my mouth to respond. Because they're lies – or, not lies exactly, but not the whole truth. A president should remain just, unbiased, level-headed in times of crisis, yet I can't stop thinking about revenge. The districts took my children, all three of them. Corra, only just seventeen, yet she signed up to fight all the same, even though I told her time and time again she didn't have to. She said it was her own desire, to protect the innocent citizens of her city. And the twins . . . Bradely and Elle were only eleven, spending their days playing in the small, fenced-off gardens in front of our house. They should have been completely secure. But that rebel from 6 who had somehow managed to sneak into the city still shot them while attempting to assassinate me.

It was all because of me. That was the worst of it. Perhaps not Corra's death, necessarily, but Bradely and Elle would never have been in danger had I chosen a different profession. Both would be alive and well, safe in my arms, laughing and smiling like b-before. That day was the day I nearly gave up on the war, nearly surrendered all that I had to the rebels. If taking their children will do the same, than all the better. But more than anything, I want them to feel the pain.

Daelianne is still looking at me as though she expects an answer – and is afraid of what that answer might be – but she opens the door to the interrogation room all the same. Chentanko refused to tell me anymore about what he had in mind until I brought him his confiscated computer; apparently, all the documents are on here. The fact that this man might have been planning something like this for so long, since before the war was even over, is worrisome, but nevertheless, I want to see what he has in mind. Just in case it's useful.

"Oh, my beautiful baby." The hacker's whole face seems to light up as he catches sight of the computer. "Your people better not have done anything to it. I swear, if I see a single scratch-"

"Might I remind you, Mr Chentanko, that you are in no position to make threats." The man may have ideas I want, but his ego and misplaced sense of superiority I can do without.

"Of course." He grins as I approach, though the smile fades as I place the computer on the edge of the table, far out of his reach. "What are you doing?"

"Ms Botterwurth will be opening whatever files you say you need. You yourself, however, will not be touching the computer. Need I remind you why you are here?"

"Still worried I'm some sort of rebel hacker, eh?" The playful smirk is back on his lips almost immediately.

"You did say intelligent people know when to be paranoid."

"Well, I wasn't exactly referring to you at the time, but yes, I suppose I did."

Daelianne slams her palm down on the table, surprising both of us. "Mr Chentanko, this is the president of Panem. You have no right to speak to him this way." She glares furiously at the man in the chair, though I can't tell if her anger is truly because of his insult or due to the ominous suffering he's planned out for the districts. For my sensible, level-headed vice president, she's making it awfully clear how much she hates this man.

"Daelianne, it's all right." I put a hand on her shoulder, feeling a peculiar rush of joy at taking on the role of reassuring. Normally it's the other way around, and it's nice to know that my vice president isn't the emotional control master I always made her out to be. "Though I agree he could do with some more respect," I add, with a pointed glance in Chentanko's direction.

The man splays his fingers out in a gesture of submission. "My apologies, Oh Great and Powerful one. Now, the computer?"

Daelianne maintains her glare even as she turns towards the screen. "Password?" she asks curtly.

Chentanko spells it out for her as I try to mentally keep track of the characters. "justICE4cHEATs?" I ask when Daelianne's fingers stop typing. "What's it mean?"

"It's a website slogan," Daelianne mutters under her breath.

Chentanko raises an eyebrow, suddenly appearing very interested in my curly-haired vice president. "You know about District DamNation? What's your username?"

"I've heard of it," Daelianne snaps back. "I'm not on it."

"Bullshit. No one's ever just "heard" of District DamNation." Chentanko's smiling widely now, almost as though he's laughing at Daelianne, who is determinedly ignoring the hacker, instead choosing to glare furiously at the computer screen.

I glance from one to the other, frowning at this sudden, new development. I've never heard of this "District DamNation" website, not that I'm very technically adept, but the fact that Daelianne knows about it – not to mention how much it seems to anger her – peaks my curiosity. "What's-"

"Which file do I open?" Daelianne snarls at the hacker.

"You can't guess?" When the woman glares at him, so intensely I'm surprised he doesn't feel physical pain, Chentanko relents. "All right, all right. The one called _Project Hunger Games_."

"Hunger Games?" I'm not sure which word throws me off more.

Chentanko smiles. "It's a bit more subtle than "Death Games". Also, has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"What's the "Games" part got to do with anything?"

"You'll see."

The file comes to life as it finishes loading, and I'm greeted with a document that seems to never end. Daelianne scrolls through, her grimace growing tighter and tighter as she flashes by each new page. A map of some outdoor region. A design for what seems to resemble an ancient chariot. A list of what look like names, with rebel connections mentioned underneath. I can't help but feel awe at the amount of work put into all this – whatever _this _is.

"The instrument of the districts' demise," Chentanko says when I pose the question. "What I've taken to calling the "Hunger Games", seeing as food shortages were such a problem during the war. But now it's the districts who will starve."

"That still doesn't answer my question," I retort, only half-paying attention as Daelianne continues to scroll down the pages. "How exactly does it work?"

"Take two children from each district, a boy and a girl – I thought that would be a nice balance. Not unlike what you did with your little execution, Mr President, only this would be on a much, much bigger scale. You see, if we just take kids and kill them off, we give the districts an enemy, someone to unite against: us. So how do we solve the problem?"

I frown, unsure if the question is rhetorical. But Chentanko is watching me expectantly, so I say the first thing that pops into my head. "Give them a new enemy?"

At the same time, Daelianne mutters, "Turn them on each other."

"Both right!" Chentanko attempts to clap his hands with his wrists still bound. "A pluses all around."

"How exactly do we turn them against each other?" I hate the districts, despise them with all my heart, but I can't deny they fought formidably during the war. Each trusted the other entirely, each lent their help to others in need; people with that level of companionship would be hard to make into enemies.

Yet, of course, Chentanko responds with, "Simple. We take their children, people who haven't yet truly devoted themselves to their parents' alliances. We stick them in an arena of sorts, and tell them only one of them can come out alive. Last man standing wins."

Silence reigns as I stare at him, shocked and slack-jawed. The full meaning of his words reverberates through my skull, becoming louder and louder with each passing echo. _Children murdering children. Children murdering children. Children murdering children._ An idea I can't bear to contemplate.

Chentanko must see the doubt on my face, because he continues, "Not young children, of course. They wouldn't know what to do. I'm thinking teenagers. Not only are they more mature, while still qualifying as kids, but most will also have a bit of fighting experience already, with the rebellion and all." He leans forward, the volume in his voice dropping until he speaks barely above a whisper. "And then there's the fact that we'd be getting rid of their parents' legacies in every possible way."

Unwittingly, the rebels' earlier song returns to me. Sung specifically to children, guaranteeing they'll never forget why their parents died – and ensuring the younger generation will be there to reinstate the rebellion when they're old enough. A potential threat, just like the first rebellious acts before the war. I've learned how dangerous potential threats can become. "So, the children," I say, still desperately trying to sort out my mixed feelings. "You're saying thirteen to nineteen?"

Daelianne gives me a sharp look, as though she can't believe I'm actually considering this. Chentanko, on the other hand, can't hide the hint of pleasure in his dark eyes. "Twelve to eighteen, actually. Nineteen feels just a bit too adult."

"But twelve-year-olds?"

"Only if you want to include Abyess Exxe's son in the mix." My mind, so filled with other information, can't place the name, so Chentanko continues, "How often do you believe she sung him that little song?"

The smiling woman's son; now that would be justice. "And the children are picked, what, at random?" I ask, trying to distract from the surge of rage and macabre joy I feel at the thought of a rebel's child's life in my hands.

Chentanko smiles. "Something like that. Of course, there are a multitude of other details, but, in essence, this is what the Hunger Games boils down to. I'm sure if you have any more questions, your vice president can fill you in."

Daelianne turns her deadly gaze on him. "And what, exactly, are you implying?"

"That you have my computer and all the information on it," Chentanko says, nodding to the laptop. His left eyebrow and the right side of his mouth twitch upwards in unison. "Whatever did you think I was implying?"

I barely register their short exchange, still too focused on the possibilities presented to me. _The Hunger Games._ Two children from each district all killing each other in order to survive. Hatred of the Capitol would dry up quickly to make way for their new enemies. Sure, it needs some tweaking, but the basic idea . . . well, it could work.

_But is it right?_ a small, righteous-sounding voice in the back of my mind speaks up. _More deaths? More _children's_ deaths? Is that really what you want?_

_Is it?_

Yes.

It's this, or war, all over again. More good Capitol citizens dying. Remember: peace is always, _always _better. Peace, no matter what the cost.

So, let the Hunger Games begin.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Thank you very much for reading! The link to the blog for this story can be found on my profile. I'd love to hear what you think of the tributes!<strong>_


	2. War Takes Its Toll

_**I've been finding it difficult to write the reapings lately, as they're usually the same basic set-up and incredibly hard to make interesting. It's been hard for me writing them and I'm sure it's been a bit dull reading them sometimes. So I was thinking about different formats and I came up with an idea that I didn't think I'd seriously use, but I started writing and just couldn't stop.**_

_**So I'm changing up the reaping chapter format. I'm really sorry if this throws anyone off, I honestly wasn't planning on changing things so late but this just seemed like such a better way to do things. Sorry, this whole story is a bit of an experiment and does involve a little trial and error. But I'm hoping you guys will like things better this way: it was certainly more fun for me to write.**_

_**Basically the reapings will now only be 4 chapters long, consisting of moments before reaping day (anywhere from six months before to the day before), the morning of, the actual ceremony and the goodbyes. Each chapter will have 6 POVs, but don't worry, they'll be short. Again, so sorry for the sudden change in style, but I wrote this chapter and really loved the format.**_

_**One last thing (sorry for the long A/N), with this chapter, I was debating bumping the rating up to M. I'm not sure how violent a story can get before it's not T anymore, especially since this is a Hunger Games fic, so violence is to be expected. But anyways, if anyone has a problem with this story's current rating and feels it should be M instead of T, just let me know. Some parts of this chapter are pretty violent.**_

_**Anyways, hope you enjoy the new format! It'll certainly get us to the Capitol a lot faster, and then from there, the Games!**_

* * *

><p><strong>MIKAEL RASAUF, 18, DISTRICT 3<strong>

The radio station is compromised four days after the Capitol invades District 3.

"—banging on our door right now. Conny is checking through our peephole—says it's soldiers all right." Vector Doss is still rambling into the microphone, words coming out in a mess of speedy syllables as he tries to get in everything he wants to say. Behind my spot operating the broadcasting equipment, I can hear the other Doss twin swearing under his breath as he watches the soldiers pounding on our door.

"I know our time is short and there probably aren't very many of you out there listening in anyways, but the fight is not over, the fight is _not _over. This surrender was not a choice, it was imposed on us by the very people we were trying to usurp, and now they've come into our districts, our homes, stealing our leaders away and executing our people in the streets. But that does _not _mean we have to lie down and take it. Please, everyone, remember the sacrifices we took during the war, the lives of every friend or family member you lost. Do you want their deaths to be in vain? Keep fighting! We do not have to bow to the Capitol again!"

"Shit!" Conny races away from the door, shaking my shoulder as he passes by. "Shit, shit, shit! They've got a fucking battering ram out there! Shit, what do we _do_?"

Nothing—we all realised that the moment the soldiers found our hideout. There aren't any other ways out of here, unless you want to climb out the window and risk falling twelve stories. We chose this as our base of operations _because _of its lack of entrances; we felt it'd be easier to keep the location a secret on the off chance enemy forces invaded 3. That was a plan that failed spectacularly.

"We're going to be offline soon," Vector continues, still determined to keep our broadcast going even as a resounding _bam! _nearly tears the door off its hinges. "The soldiers outside are going to force their way in, the same way the Capitol used force to invade the districts and force us down. We can't go back to that! Please, anyone out there, listen, we have to keep up the fight, keep the spirit of the rebellion alive! All is not lost! We can still—"

_BAM! _

We all jump as the door explodes inwards, instantly allowing a troupe of armed men in white uniforms to barge into the room, guns at the ready. My hands are up before I can think, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see Conny do the same, but Vector is still clutching his microphone, still desperately trying to complete his broadcast. "The Capitol is here! They're taking us down using the same brutal methods they always have! Ask yourselves, can you live under their rule again? Can you—"

Conny screams as a Peacekeeper raises his gun and fires, opening a bloody tunnel straight through the side of Vector's head. Flecks of skin and bone and brain matter shower the microphone and the table beneath as the boy drops to the ground, lips frozen in an attempt to form his final plea.

The sight of the dead, cold body of what was once my friend and co-worker paralyses me with horror. It feels as if the entire world has suddenly disappeared, except me and the boy bleeding out on the ground a few feet away.

The Peacekeepers won't let me forget their presence, though. Two of them plow into me, yanking my arms away from my head and twisting them behind my back before shoving my face into the soundboard in front of me. I gasp as pain shoots through my face, and it's ridiculous, but there's also a small part of my brain screaming, _That's expensive equipment, dumbasses, you're going to break it!_

I can barely see anything from my position, but Conny comes into view, forced against the wall with his arms behind his back, just like me. Even from here, I can spot the tears racing down his face. The Peacekeepers restraining him can barely keep their grip, he's trembling so violently.

Another man steps up beside Conny, one I recognise immediately; his face was broadcast on all our televisions four days ago with an announcement declaring him 3's "Head Peacekeeper", Gerius Renhart. The man's title doesn't match the cold, cruel sneer he gives my friend.

"You're the other host for Districts on Alert, aren't you? I'd recognise your voice anywhere."

"Don't kill me," Conny whimpers. "Please don't kill me."

"Kill you? That decision's up to you, my friend," Renhart leans down so his face is nearly touching Conny's. "Does your loyalty lie with the rebels or the Capitol?"

If it was Vector being asked that question, he would have been dead. But Conny was always the more easy-going of the two, less devoted to the rebellion's cause and more concerned with keeping himself alive.

"The Capitol." It comes out as a moan. "I'm loyal to the Capitol."

Renhart smirks. With one hand, he grabs Conny's collar, pulling him away from the other Peacekeepers. With the other, he gestures for everyone to stand back before pulling something small out of his pocket: a tape recorder.

He presses the play button with one thick, meaty finger and the room fills with Conny's laughter from one of our past podcasts. _"I couldn't believe the news either! The president's own daughter killed in the battle of Farro Field! Shot through the heart, the reports say—that is, if she ever had one to begin with. Now is the time to celebrate, people! We'll bring those Capitol bastards down. Long live the districts!"_

"You're a liar," Renhart hisses. In one swift movement, he drops the recorder and pulls a handgun from his belt.

_BANG!_

"Two for two." Renhart smiles, tossing Conny's lifeless body into a corner.

"What about this one, sir?" comes a voice from above me. It takes a moment for his words to penetrate my nauseating shock. _Me. They mean me._

Renhart strides over and bends down to take a look at me. I wish I could say I showed an inkling of defiance, but in reality, my eyes, behind their cracked glasses, are too wide and filled with nothing but fear.

"You work the equipment, don't you?"

"Y-yes."

"Mm. Get me on air, and I might consider letting you live."

All at once, the pressure is lifted from my head. I sit up, rubbing a hand across my cheek and feeling where the buttons from the soundboard left deep imprints in my skin. Luckily (although honestly, can anything be lucky at this point?), the equipment wasn't damaged when my head was slammed into it; just some buttons pressed that turned off the broadcast.

I don't even feel an ounce of shame as I comply with the Head Peacekeeper's words. The images of my murdered friends are still swimming before my eyes.

"People of the districts," Renhart begins as I signal the mike is working again. "This radio station has been dismantled. There will be no more transmissions henceforth, no more war stories shared or rebel propaganda spewed. For anyone out there still listening, the rebellion is over. The districts have been crushed. The Capitol has won."

* * *

><p><strong>AZIMUTH KURINDT, 16, DISTRICT 5<strong>

He has to die. He _has_ to _die_.

There are only two people guarding the room to the control centre, a man and a woman. What the hell? With this lack of security, why has no one done this yet?

Oh, that's right. Because there's no one fucking _left_.

Well, maybe there are a few out there. Cowards, weaklings, shadows of their former selves. The fight seemed to go out of everyone left when the ceasefire was called three weeks ago. Yet Aolian fucking Stautick still refuses to surrender.

That's why I have to end this. I refuse to die in this factory, not after holding it for five months during the siege and _definitely_ not after the war has ended. There's no point in any of us still being here. Let the Capitol forces come in, let them win. The only reason they haven't yet is because Stautick's still threatening to blow the place, taking out a large part of the Capitol's corps and a larger part of the district. He's crazy enough to do it, too, which has stayed their hand.

_But not mine._

I leap out from around the corner, hurling my pocketknife into the nearest guy's chest. My hands are shaking though—_damn it—_and it hits him the leg instead, but whatever, he still goes down. I'm on the woman before she has time to scream, slamming my fist into her throat to keep any sound from escaping her lips. She tries to block my next punch to her face, but I've done this before, done this too many times while those in good with Stautick were living the life of luxury up here by the control room. They didn't have to kill to survive. They didn't have to kill to _eat._

The thought triggers the memory of burning flesh, the sickly smell that was at once repulsive and terrifyingly tantalising. I can feel nausea twist my gut, but I can't give in, can't let it consume me again or I _will_ die.

With a yell of fury, I pound my fists into the woman beneath me, hitting whatever bit of exposed flesh I can. Turn the sickness into rage, turn the fear into rage, turn every emotion you have into rage—that's the only way you can survive here at the Duskendawn Power Plant.

I don't stop until there's nothing but an unrecognisable piece of meat beneath me; all of the woman's features are either bent, broken or covered in blood. Only then do I stand on shaky legs, and only then do I remember there was another guy.

He's still on the ground, hands wrapped around the spot where my knife sunk into his leg. His eyes are wide and his face is pale, but the expression is off; he's not nearly as horrified at the scene before him as he should be. That's the Duskendawn effect: violence like this has become all too normal.

"I'm ending this," I growl, raising one bloodstained finger and jabbing it towards the door. "I'm ending _him_."

The man stares at me and I realise I recognise him. John Lumyair, one of the higher ups working at the plant before all this batshit craziness started. He was kind of a quiet guy, not a suck-up to Stautick but not exactly a friend to us common workers either. He has a daughter too, I think; she used to be in my classes until I was fourteen, when I dropped out of school to work at the plant.

"Do it." The whisper is so quiet, I almost miss it. But then it comes again, louder as tears start to roll down the man's cheeks. "Do it, do it, do it. The lock is broken, you can walk right in, _please _do it. I can't die here. My family . . . no, no, I can't!"

With a sharp gasp, he yanks the knife from his leg and throws it at my feet. "_Please_."

It's times like this when I realise how fucked up the world I live in is—even more so when I don't question Lumyair's wish, just pick up the knife and slam the door to the control room open.

There's Stautick, sitting in a rolling chair surrounded by hundreds of boxes and jars, most empty, though some are still filled with crackers, rice, honey, whatever food could be found in the plant's supply rooms. He's been hoarding it _all_, no concern for the rest of us who starved to death or had to resort to . . . to . . .

I roar, a pure, animalistic roar, and lunge at him before he can even react to my entrance. His chair goes spinning away as I tackle him to the ground, bringing my knife around so it's pointed right at his heart. I can't believe this; sixteen years old, scrawny and starving, and I've taken this fully-grown man down, no problem. Well, that's what you get for staying in here, out of the fights, gorging yourself on food and getting others to defend you, you _bastard._

He doesn't even scream as I prepare to stab him in the chest; fuck, he doesn't even look scared! Just stares at me calmly with this vaguely disappointed look in his eyes, like I've forgotten to mop up part of the break room again. "Azimuth Kurindt," he says. "I remember you. One of the maintenance workers. What are you doing here?"

"The war is over," I growl. "Give up. Let the Capitol come. Let us go _home_."

Stautick shakes his head and there's that damn _look_ again, like he called on me in class and I gave him a stupid answer. "You don't understand, do you, boy? You don't have a home to go to. None of us do. It's all Capitol lands out there now. This is the last place in the world they don't hold. Once it's gone, we're all dead anyways. Every last one of us. Out there, boy, out there is hell. But in _here_ . . . I've made it a paradise. They can't get in here, no they can't. Ever. I'll blow them to smithereens before they do. And you'll thank me then, because you'll die _free_. You won't ever know the chains of servitude again. I am giving everyone in this building _freedom_. That's worth more than any life."

He's crazy. He's absolutely, no-fucking-question-about-it crazy.

That's why I can shove my knife into his chest without a second thought. In that split second, his eyes widen, as though he didn't think I was actually going to do it. Blood bubbles up from beneath the blade and more emerges when he coughs and chokes up a smattering of red droplets that fly up to hit me in the cheek. But what do I care, right? What's more blood at this point? My hands are already stained with it, my feet, my clothes, my face, my mouth . . .

I force myself to focus on Stautick; it comes as a shock to realise there's no light in his eyes anymore. I mean, I knew he was dying, knew I was going to kill him, but it just didn't seem possible 'til now. This man might as well have been our president, our god for the past five months. Now he's dead.

It takes a long time for me to peel myself away from Stautick's bloody corpse. Even longer for me to stand and find the phone that I know is a direct line to the head of the Capitol forces outside. My fingers are trembling so much, it takes me seven tries just to press the _talk _button.

The voice that picks up on the other end is cool and stern. "Mr. Stautick? Have you reconsidered our offer?"

"Stautick's dead." My voice is shaking worse than the rest of me. "There are probably less than a dozen of us left in here. You've won. Come and get us."

I try to hang up, but my hand is jerking too wildly, and I wind up dropping the phone instead. It hits the floor, quickly followed by my knees as I collapse, dissolving into something between hysterical laughter and uncontrollable sobs.

* * *

><p><strong>ANNE EMONY, 16, DISTRICT 4<strong>

I didn't want to feel hope. I've spent eight long months being disappointed, again and again and again. But hope is a funny thing—you can't turn it off. So when that boat appeared on the horizon, I felt like I'd just taken a lightning bolt to the heart.

"Here!" I yell, although I know it's pointless. Better to save my breath, use my energy to drag more wood towards the enormous fire I've built on the beach. Already smoke is filling the air, spiralling upwards in a thirty-foot column. _Please see it, please see it._

When I was shipwrecked eight months ago, a lot of debris washed up on the beach with me, including a reflective piece of metal about the size of my hand. I grab it now, trying to position it so the sun's light will bounce off and flash towards the oncoming ship. They have to see this, right? It's impossible to miss. _Please, let this be the day I finally go home._

The strangest thing happens. One minute, my ears are filled with the crackling of flames, but beyond that is the ever-present sounds of my island: birds singing, crickets chirping, frogs croaking. The next, however, everything goes silent save my fire.

Out of nowhere, an enormous hovercraft appears overhead, zipping through the sky at top speed. I nearly scream in delight; it's here for me, it has to be, why else would there be a hovercraft over this random patch of ocean? Waving my arms madly, I run up to the front of the beach, and that's when I notice the other three hovercrafts, not to mention the numerous little boats that have appeared alongside the bigger one. It's a fact that puts a bit of a damper on my enthusiasm. Sure, Captain Tombolo Emony was a great man, well-known in 4, but sending this big a fleet out here just to check the wreckage of his ship? Especially being eight months late? Something's wrong here.

The missiles from the hovercrafts launch towards the big ship and that's when I realise this isn't a rescue: it's _war_.

Not only that, but the battle is heading my way. At this rate, the boats will run aground on my island. Perhaps I should run, disappear into the jungle I've come to know so well. There are dangers to being found. When that Capitol ship sunk my father's ship so long ago, they stopped by this island to see if anyone had happened to survive and wash up here. Like an idiot, I'd run and hidden from them. At the time, I'd figured remaining here was far better than whatever the Capitol had planned for the daughter of District 4's most proficient ship captain.

I was wrong then; I was so, so wrong. Eight months of solitude, of loneliness, of being forced to fend for myself, has taught me that. I'm ready to see people again, no matter what they do to me. It can't be worse than slowly going crazy out here by myself.

So I stand on the beach and wait for the ships to come. One way or another, I am getting off this island today.

* * *

><p><strong>HAL IBBIT, 15, DISTRICT 4<strong>

"We are being boarded! I repeat, we are being boarded!"

"All fighters to the starboard side!"

"We're on a collision course! Island, dead ahead! Turn us around!"

"Their missiles have fucked with the controls, I can't do anything!"

"We are being boarded!"

It's pure pandemonium on the _Waves of Freedom_ as people race back and forth across the deck, toting guns and screaming frantically at each other. Eb and I watch the commotion from the lifeboat we've hunkered down in, peering out from under the tarp covering us. _Stay here, _my father had said as soon as the attack began, and though I've always listened to him, I've never found following an order harder. _Let me help, _I want to scream. _I can fight! Being fifteen doesn't make me a baby!_

"Oh man," Eb whimpers, covering his ears as gunshots ring out. "Oh jeez, oh crap, oh, we were so close! Two months, two whole months and they never found us! I thought we'd made it!"

"Shut up," I snap, trying to focus on what's happening on deck. I want to tell him to quit whining like a baby too, but Eb is my friend, sort of.

"What do you think they're going to do to us?" he whispers, his face draining of what little colour I have left. "I mean, if they wanted slaughter us all, they could have easily blown up the ship. They've got hovercrafts out there, right? But they only hit us enough to knock out the steering systems. And now they're boarding . . . oh no." He sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes glistening with fear behind freshly formed tears. "They want us alive, don't they? They're trying to take all the rebels alive and then they're going to torture us or . . . no, no, I can't live through that, I can't!"

"Will you shut up?" I hiss, because he's succeeding at making me nervous and I don't like it. Going out in a blaze of glory during a battle, that's one thing. But if the Capitol is trying to take prisoners; if they try to take my family . . . "Wait here."

"Where are you going?!" Eb somehow manages to simultaneously scream and whisper, but I completely ignore him, already hopping out of the lifeboat and racing off towards the starboard side. My mom, my dad, my older brothers—they're all out there fighting now. I have to help.

I swing around a corner and _there_! One, two, three, four—all the Ibbits are alive and well, their guns trained on the men and women trying to board our ship, firing with incredible precision, _bam, bam, bam!_ The looks on their faces are so intense, completely stoic and focused on their tasks, yet there's a fiery light burning bright in their eyes, passionate and fierce. That's when I realise why we rebels risked detection coming back to Panem, rather than fleeing like we could have. Escaping the enemy isn't enough; we need to _beat_ them. And we are, too. Look at my family go! I want to cheer as another Capitol soldier falls, a red-rimmed hole in his temple.

Suddenly, the deck jerks and tilts, throwing everyone off-balance, district and Capitol citizens alike. I just manage to catch myself on the railing and glance towards the bow, searching for answers as to what the hell just happened.

We've run aground on that island our captain was so worried about. It's a verdant jungle of trees and bushes, vines and ferns, ending in sandy beaches that stretch out for a few metres before hitting the water. An enormous bonfire has been built close to where are ship landed; what is this, some Capitol ambush? No, that's not possible.

I look back towards where the fighting took place and my heart stops when I realise the first person to recover from their fall is a woman in the unmistakable uniform of the Capitol. Her weapon, a stunner, not meant to kill, just incapacitate, lays by her feet, next to a rebel's dropped gun. For a split second, her hand hovers over her stunner before her lip curls.

"Fuck that."

She grabs the gun and starts to fire. The closest rebel to her is Kanyu Lempry, a kind old man I sort of knew, and his stomach is blown open by the woman's bullets before he has a chance to defend himself. Right behind him is my brother, Loch.

I don't even have time to yell his name before the bullets hit, tearing through his tanned face so similar to mine. Mom, Dad and Sevan shout, and with the other rebels try to get back to the fighting, but the Capitol is gaining the upper hand, discarding their stunners and picking up real guns, murdering everyone in sight. A bullet catches my father in the leg, sending him down before another hits him in the head. Sevan tries to scramble out of the firing line, off to the side by the railing, but he's shot in the chest and sent tumbling over the ship's rail. I'm barely aware that I'm screaming at the top of my lungs or that tears are pouring down my cheeks as I run into the fray, watching countless rebels fall around me. And my mother . . . my mother . . .

"No!" I cry, watching the same Capitol woman who killed Loch advance on Mom, gun trained on her while my mother is completely unarmed. I start to run for her, but my foot slips and I fall face first into a puddle of blood.

Mom's voice reaches my ears. "I'd thought your orders would have been to capture us, not kill us."

"I'm changing my orders," comes the Capitolite's frigid reply. "Burn in hell."

I look up, one cheek coated in blood, just in time to see the soldier open fire.

"No! No, MOM!"

Without thinking, I leap up and sprint towards the Capitol soldier, rage and pain and distress blinding me to everything but the woman who just murdered my mother. She must hear me coming because she starts to turn around, but I'm on her before she can do anything, pounding her with my fists, half-aware I'm screaming "Why?! Why?! Why?!" over and over and over again. I wasn't allowed to carry a gun, was "too young" in the eyes of my parents, but I can do more than enough damage with my fists. "WHY?!"

Seemingly out of nowhere, the butt of the woman's gun comes swinging up and smacks me in the eye. I fall back reflexively, and before I can move again, the other end of her gun is pointed in my direction, a cold glimmer in her steely eyes.

"Valens! Stand down! All of you, all of you stop! Have you forgotten your orders?"

Another woman boards our boat, her uniform decorated with several pins and badges. "I said stand down, soldiers," she says as she goes from Capitol man to Capitol man, taking the guns from each of them. "That's an order."

The woman in front of me reluctantly lowers her weapon, and that's when I jump on her again, screaming every profanity I know. I get one good punch to her stomach in before hands wrap around my arms, dragging me away.

"Let me go! LET ME GO!" I let out a wordless roar, trying to wrench my arms free, but they're pulled behind my back and held fast. "Let me go, you fucking bastards!"

"Language," the woman with the badges _tsk_s, shaking a finger in my direction. "Someone shut this one up, please."

A large, gloved hand claps over my mouth, allowing only muffled sounds through, even as I scream at the top of my lungs. Tears are still flowing freely down my cheeks and I can't figure out if I'm more angry or sad or both. I just want to punch something—punch these soldiers, over and over. I want them _dead_.

"These men and women were going to be our examples." The woman who seems to be in charge shakes her head as her eyes flit to each bloody body on deck. "So much for the president's orders. How many did we actually capture?"

"I'm hearing eight so far, ma'am," one soldier says, a walkie-talkie held to his ear. "Plus some girl troupes found on the island—rebel connections are still unknown."

"Mm, well, take them all in, just to be sure. Can never be too careful with this—"

"You fucking cowards!" I've managed to bite the hand in front of my mouth; it withdraws, leaving me free to scream all I can at the soldiers before me. "You bastards!" Eb was right; they want us alive, either for information or for humiliation, I don't know, but whichever it is, they _won't _be getting the satisfaction. "You might as well kill us now because no one here is going to give you anything!"

One of the soldiers raises the butt of their gun and stalks towards me, but the woman in charge raises a hand and they stop short. "How old would you say this one is," she muses, glancing at the guards around her. "Fourteen? Fifteen?"

"Old enough to take you on, you cowardly bitch—"

Quick as a flash, her hand snakes out and grabs my chin, squeezing my jaw with such force that I can't make another sound. "Yes, I'd say so," she murmurs as I glare furiously up at her, trying madly to struggle out of her grasp. "Well, you'll be perfect for what the president's cooking up. Project Hunger Games, he's calling it." She smiles, bowing her head so her eyes stare directing into mine. "I don't know what it is, but I can guarantee it won't be nearly as fun as it sounds. For you, at least."

* * *

><p><strong>FASCIA SHEWART, 18, DISTRICT 10<strong>

"Project Hunger Games," I say, thinking over the words in my head. "That sounds dumb."

The man across from me smiles. "Well, it is a working title, though I personally find it quite catchy."

"No, it's dumb." Mind you, so is most everything these ridiculous people come up with. "What is it?"

All I get in answer is a sly smile over the rim of his teacup. "Apologies, Miss Shewart, but I can't tell you everything."

_Miss Shewart_. I snort. It's ridiculous and overly fancy, like everything about this strange Capitolite. It's also creepy that I don't know his name and he knows mine—then again, he also knew where I lived even though I've never seen him before in my life. Just showed up at my door this morning with a couple of cups and some tea in a thermos.

The fingers of his free hand drum against my dirty kitchen table, nails making an annoying _clack_ing sound—he hasn't stopped that since he got here and it's _really _beginning to get on my nerves. "The point is, Miss Shewart, I need your help with this project. Your father was a historian, correct? Loved learning about ancient cultures."

"Sure. Waste of time if you ask me." Maybe if my father had spent less time with his books and more time actually doing work on the farm, he might not have gotten sick and died. Ranching builds your immune system.

The man smiles, crinkling the skin by his eerily all-black eyes. "Ah, but you took after in in some regards, did you not? Have a certain affinity for making ancient weapons?" He nods out the window, where my forge can be seen peeking out from behind the barn. "You've got quite the collection out there. I'm impressed."

I don't even bother to ask him how he knows about my hobby; the Capitol's been pretty invasive in the four months since the district surrendered, I'm sure they know everything about everyone by now.

"You know, technically I could have all that taken away," the man continues, taking a sip of his tea. "And you arrested. Your little hobby could be seen as a threat to the nation's peace."

"But it's not." The Capitol, the districts—who cares who's in charge? Don't bother me at all.

"You fail to see the point."

I set my cup back down on the table, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You threatening me, Capitolite?"

The man smirks. "Glad you've caught on. But no, I'm not threatening you—not unless it's necessary, that is. If you cooperate, things will go fine for you. Better than fine. I'm willing to pay you handsomely for your work."

"And what work is this?"

"Simple. Keep doing what you do, making weapons and such. I want a wide selection done by the end of the month, at which point I'll send someone down here to collect them. Deal?"

I'm still watching him skeptically. "What do you need them for?"

"Oh, you'll find out in about a month. Does it really matter anyways?"

"Depends. Don't want to be a threat to the nation's peace."

The man pauses for a moment, thin eyebrows raised. A large smile breaks out across his face, and he laughs. "Well played, Miss Shewart. I was worried you didn't have a sense of humour."

"I don't. Sometimes it's easier for people to think I'm joking rather than being honest." That's probably why I don't have any friends. Also, I never leave the farm. Also, I hate people. "So, what do I get in return?"

The man's chuckles stop, and he grins, though there's something off about it this time—mischievous, almost . . . shark-like. For the first time, I realise each of his teeth have been filed into fangs. "An opportunity to gain riches beyond your wildest dreams."

Something strikes me as odd about the way he's phrased his answer, yet I can't deny his offer is tantalising. The farm's seen better days, especially since the war; damn Capitolites came in here and told me I had to give up practically all of my livestock for "the good of Panem". I need money. This man is offering me money in exchange for something I enjoy doing. There's nothing simpler, and I love simple—why am I so hesitant about taking him up on his offer?

In the end, though, common sense wins out over my vague feelings of unease. "Deal," I say, stretching out a grubby hand to shake.

The man smiles and takes my hand in his. "Excellent. Thank you very much, Miss Shewart. You have no idea how much help you're giving me."

* * *

><p><strong>GLAMOUR SUMPTAIOUS, 18, DISTRICT 1<strong>

The man runs at me, his mace swinging low to catch me in the legs. I go to jump, but at the last second my sluggish mind realises he's feinting and I duck to the left, right before the mace whips over my head. Momentum takes the man forward and I kick out, catching him in the back of the leg. He falls to the ground and I yank the mace from his grasp, bringing it down on his head.

The plushy, rubber spikes bounce off his cheeks and he makes an X with his hands, indicating I've killed him. Good.

I glance up at the balcony, where a long line of men and women in lab coats are watching. Up above them, a big, digital clock glows with the numbers 28:54.

An hour more—an hour more and I'll have achieved their desired goal. At least, I think being up fighting for thirty hours straight is their goal. The number climbs higher and higher every time they put me through this.

The door slides open to my right, and through it four men come running. _Four_. This late in the game? No, no way I can do this.

_Don't think like that. They say you will, therefore you will. You have to. Remember everything you've learned._

One of them has a bow and arrow; they fire at me now and I just barely manage to roll to the side. I can feel exhaustion creeping up on me—ever since I hit sixteen hours, fatigue comes and goes in waves, sometimes nearly taking me down, sometimes easily pushed back by adrenaline. I'm not supposed to think negative thoughts about my performance, but I can tell this won't be one of those latter times.

Movement up on the balcony catches my eye, and I glance upwards to see someone step to the front of the crowd. The man with the black eyes and the curling tattoos. He's the one in charge here—well, him and the woman with the blue hair, but he was the one who picked me from District 1, who brought me here and watched me constantly, who taught me lessons on how to dole out pain and how to take it. _"Impress this man," _my father told me before I left, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me so I knew he was serious. _"He's important, I can tell. Do whatever he says and _impress_ him."_

Right. That means winning this fight—

Out of nowhere, a blow to my jaw knocks to the ground. Real weapons aren't allowed in this training, but the man with black eyes said punches and kicks were "constructive"—get me used to pain.

I flinch away from the next blow and throw up my hands, but the block is weak, and one of the other men grabs my wrist, yanking it away from my face.

I don't even see the next hit, but I feel my nose explode with pain as something warm and sticky begins to trickle down my face. _This isn't how it's supposed to be. They're supposed to kill me and finish the exercise. That's what I do to them—I don't draw it out. I don't hurt them._

Somehow, I wind up on my back with feet kicking out all around me. It's unclear, but I think the woman with the blue hair is talking over the loudspeaker, telling me to get up and fight back. _Do what you're told_, I think, and struggle to lift myself up on my elbows. My attackers see the effort and back off, curious as to whether I'll actually manage to stand.

I make it onto my knees before my legs give out and I collapse back to the ground. Pain or exhaustion—or both—won't let me rise again.

The blue-haired woman's sigh carries over the loudspeaker. "Trainers, thank you, you're done here. Glamour, come speak with us."

That requires leaving through the door, walking down a hall, up some stairs, down another hall and through the archway that will take me to the balcony. I open my mouth, fully prepared to say I'm not going to make it, when my father's voice shouts in my head, _"Do as you're told!"_

It feels like it takes me nearly an hour to get up to the balcony—actually, it probably does. Ten minutes pass at least before I finally manage to peel myself off the ground, and then I have to hobble like an old man out the gym door and down the hall. My vision keeps blacking out at random intervals, eyelids closing of their own accord, but I force myself to stay away. _Just a little longer. Just a little longer._

By the time I make it to the balcony, everything looks so fuzzy I can barely make out the faces of the people in lab coats. I can imagine them though, brows furrowed and lips frowning in disappointment.

One man steps forward—the man with black eyes. "Well, come on, Glamour, let's see you stand tall. After all this training we've given you, surely you don't need to brace yourself against the wall like a beaten pup."

Am I leaning against the wall? I wasn't even aware of it. With difficulty, I lower my arms to my sides and stand up straight, rocking back on the balls of my feet. _Whatever you do, don't fall over._

"Good." The man circles me, taking in every inch of my form. "What was his time again?"

"Twenty-eight hours, fifty-seven minutes," someone pipes up from the crowd of lab coats.

"Pity he didn't make it to thirty." I force myself not to flinch, preparing for the inevitable reprimand, but the man surprises me by continuing with, "Might be good enough though."

Suddenly, his face is inches from mine. If it wasn't for his hands slamming down on my shoulders, I would have jumped back in shock, and then I _definitely _would have fallen over. "Tell me, boy, do you think you're ready?"

It may seem like a question, but I know there's only one possible response. "Yes, sir."

"Do you feel confident in your ability to kill twenty-three other teenagers?"

"Yes, sir."

"You believe you can survive in my arena, with all the obstacles we will send your way and still accomplish this goal?"

I'm not even really listening to what he's saying at this point. "Yes, sir."

"Excellent." He claps me on the shoulder. "Back to your room, then. You've got about two hours before you have to be on your train back home." Even through my fatigue-induced fog, I can see him break out into a wide grin. "It's reaping day tomorrow!"


	3. Calm Before the Storm

_**Look at that - already halfway through the reapings! Yay! :) For anyone who was reading this story before I changed up the format, you'll recognise a lot of the POVs in this chapter and they're all basically the same. Huon and Aelia are the only new characters. Thank you all for reading!**_

* * *

><p><strong>WINZE REAMING, 13, DISTRICT 12<strong>

"All right, Little Foragers, listen up!"

Keerlin merely giggles, as she always does whenever she hears our "team name", but Lisya straightens immediately and raises her hand in a salute. I lift my hand and mimic the gesture as best I can while still holding onto Defrey. "Our mission today is as always, find and retrieve. Bonus points today for anything shiny you turn up, or any spare clothes you might spot."

"What 'bout food?" Keerlin asks excitedly, bouncing up and down.

"_Extra_ bonus points for that," I tell her, though her beaming smile breaks my heart. The odds of finding food in the wreckage after six months are next to none. "Ready?" Two simultaneous nods. "On your marks. Get set. Go!"

Immediately, the pair of girls race off, Lisya quickly pulling into the lead; Keerlin, despite her boundless energy, is still at the disadvantage of being three years younger. I sigh as I watch them go, hefting Defrey up higher in my arms—yep, this is our little family of orphans.

Before us stretches a vast ruin of toppled buildings, broken asphalt and burnt furniture. The bombing of 13 has been hard on us too. Just past the forest that borders 12's northern fence waits the smoldering remains of the graphite mining district, so we could feel every explosive dropped from those hovercrafts, practically hear the screams of an entire population being wiped out. A large portion of our district's northern region collapsed as a result, and everyone had to relocate. Even now nearly a quarter of the district is still homeless.

Keerlin, not having gotten too far, gives a shout of joy as she catches sight of something amidst the debris. She bends down, yanks it out, and thrusts the pewter spoon into the air. "Shiny!" I can still hear her shout, even from this distance. "More points for me!"

I fake a grin, flashing a thumbs up with my one free hand. Inwardly, my mind is whirring with calculations. _Pewter spoon. How much could we get for that?_

The answer, sadly, is not very much.

Keerlin takes off once more and I follow at a slower pace, letting her search the debris while I keep my eye out for any foragers who might still be hanging around. In the week after the bombing took place, this area was swarming every day with scavengers, most not the friendly type. People were stabbed over objects of little worth, any food that could be found was fought over tooth and nail, and a least a dozen scroungers were killed rummaging around barely-standing buildings on a windy day. It was brutal—which was why I'd decided to hold off on foraging around the ruins until _after_ all the others had left.

"Winze, look!"

The words are interspersed with heavy breathing as Keerlin pants, struggling to free a long, wooden board from a pile of debris. She obviously sees something of value in it, but I nearly cry out at the sight—all I can think is_ she might drop it, she might hurt herself, there might be rusty nails, she could get cut and infected and then what would we do? Nothing,, I couldn't help her, couldn't save her. _"Keerlin, put that down!"

"But look!" She yanks it free of the other beams and holds an end for me to see. Faded letters cover the surface; though her short, little fingers point to each one, it's no less impossible for me to decipher. "'Bakery'! It says 'bakery', Winze! D'ya think there's still food around? Ooh, ooh, or cakes? I'm gonna go look for cakes!"

I cringe as she drops the board, but it hits the ground a good foot away from Keerlin's worn and ragged slippers, and she prances off happily, completely unscathed. Thank goodness she seems to be the luckiest six-year-old in District 12. I just wish she'd take my advice and learn to be a bit more cautious. We live in a very, _very_ dangerous place, and ending the war hasn't made it any safer.

"Winze! Winze!" I jump at the call, and turn to see Lisya running towards me. Immediately, my eyes dart to her bare arms, her skinny legs—no visible injuries, but it could be worse. What if she spotted another scavenger, more desperate than we are, armed and dangerous?

I grip Defrey tighter to my chest and hurry forward to meet Lisya. "What is it?" I ask quickly. "Are you hurt? Did you see someone? Is there something bad—?"

"No, no, it's something beautiful!" Her smile catches me off-guard, her words even more so. She grabs my arm, tugging me forward. "Keerlin! You have to come see too, it's amazing!"

Keerlin hops towards us, giggling and clapping, but I pull Lisya to a halt before she can take us any further. "Hold on." I've never been one for surprises—they never mean anything good. "What do you mean, something beautiful? Are you sure it's not dangerous? What is—?"

"I can't tell you!" Lisya says, laughing. "You have to see for yourself, come on! I promise, it's good!"

_How do you know? _I want to ask, but she's already trying to pull me along, and Keerlin is dancing happily beside us, chanting, "Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!" Peer pressure works its magic, and somehow I find myself being dragged through the ruins by the two girls, each reluctant footstep taking me closer to whatever Lisya's "magical" surprise is.

As we pick our way carefully through another heap of rubble, Keerlin squeals in excitement, jabbing her finger towards structures that are slowly becoming visible as we near them. Houses, I realise, as the girls dash forwards to get closer looks. No, not just houses; they're far too big, far too bright, with beautiful gardens and hand-carved windowsills and roofs so high they must hold at least two stories. These are mansions.

My heart drops into my stomach. I've just realised what they truly are, what they're truly for.

"See, Winze? They're rebuilding the district!" Lisya can barely contain her excitement; the smile looks so out of place on her usually dour face. "We could get a house! Have a home again!"

"With flowers! And cookies!" Keerlin adds, clapping her hands. "As long as Victor lets us!"

"What?" The six-year-old's cheers stop Lisya short. "Why would we need Victor's permission?"

Victor Hob is an old, one-legged man camped out in one of the district's abandoned warehouses who always tries to sell us all sorts of illegal junk when we pass by. I try to avoid him, for the kids' sake, but a nagging voice in the back of my mind is always pointing out how Hob might just be the only man in the district who would actually pay for our "foraging treasures", instead of laughing and turning us away like most people do. About a month ago, I nearly got desperate enough to try and strike a deal with him—then, things, well, they changed.

"They're Victor's houses, aren't they?" Keerlin asks, pointing a sign hung on the wrought-iron fence that surrounds the gated community. Lisya squints at the letters, and I watch the realisation dawn on her face.

"Victor's Village," Lisya whispers under her breath. Her wide, brown eyes turn on me. "Isn't that part of that event thing they announced a month ago? The Hunger Games?"

It was mandatory to watch for all of Panem, and, since most Twelvers still didn't have homes, let alone televisions, they played it out on an enormous screen in the square. There, we were greeted with the cold steel of President Hausler's grey eyes as he gazed sharply into the camera and began to recite his announcement. Punishment for the rebellion, he said it was. Everyone had been surprised, at first—we'd all figured the Capitol was letting things slide after five months of silence. But the real shock didn't come until after the man explained exactly what our punishment entailed. I still can't fully understand it myself, and don't believe they'll ever go through with it. Yet I couldn't help the chill that ran through me as, a few days after the announcement, I waited in line to sign up for this new "tesserae" thing. Right now, what little remains of our monthly ration is currently resting in the shabby knapsack on my shoulders, its ever-present weight a constant reminder of what is to follow later today. The "reapings", President Hausler called them. Like we're a crop to be harvested.

_Felt like nothing at the time, didn't it?_ that little, cynical voice in the back of my mind speaks up. _Signing up for those extra slips to be put in that bowl—easy peasy. But what about now? What if it _is _real? What if the president was serious when he said twenty-four children will go into an arena and only one will come out?_

_What if you're picked?_

* * *

><p><strong>MACK RAMAYE, 17, DISTRICT 8<strong>

It took nine months since our capture, six months since the war ended before the Capitol finally decided to release any prisoners of war and return them to their home districts. _Nine months_—I'd started to worry I'd never see home again. 8, with its rundown tenements, smog-stained sky and cracked asphalt roads, seems like nothing more than a dream, a fantasy, too good to be true.

Yet here I am, locked away in some dingy car on a train supposedly heading for this miraculous land. Heading back home, away from the Capitol, away from the interrogations, away from . . .

"_What district are you from?"_

"_Ahh! Eight! I'm from Eight!"_

"_What is your name?"_

"_Mack, Mack Ramaye! Please, ple—Ahh!"_

"_Well, at least you can tell part of the truth. Now, what are District Six's next plans for the war?"_

The phantom voices echo all around me, clawing at the insides of my ears, worming their way into my mind and shaking my brain with every new wave of memories that surface. Unconsciously, I close my eyes and go straight into the fetal position, clutching my body as tightly as I can, as though to assure myself that I'm whole. "No," comes the choked whisper from my throat. "No, no, no. This is not real, it's _not_ . . ."

My whole body convulses, shivering at the chilling touch of memories, but I can't give in to them. With difficulty, I try to slow my rapid gasps, clearing my mind of everything except _in one, two, three, out one, two, three. Not real, _I keep thinking, _not real. _

Still, it takes a long time for me to work up the courage to open my eyes again—I'm half-convinced I'll find myself staring right into the inhuman eyes of my ex-torturers. _You left them behind. Remember? They're not here now. It's not real._

I take a deep, nervous breath; slowly, I crack one eye open.

All that greets me are the same four walls I've been staring at for the past who knows how long, along with the boxes and crates I can just make out through the gloom. _See, _I tell myself, trying to ignore the anxious rasping of my breath. _You're fine. Just you alone here, no—_

"Ma'am, I don't think this is a good idea."

"Pish posh! Orion doesn't know what he's doing. Evidently intelligence does _not _run in that side of our family. It's hard to believe we're related at all!"

I nearly jump out of my skin. The voices appeared without warning, nearing the compartment with startling rapidity. One of them has a Capitol accent.

_Not real, _I think furiously, squeezing my eyes shut tight. _Not real, not real, just a hallucination._

"You're the president's second cousin, ma'am. Which doesn't give you authority here."

"_Excuse me?_ I am one of Orion's so-called "escorts". I'm pretty sure that makes myself more important than _you_. Now, give me the key."

_They're not real. They're not, they can't be._

"Ma'am—"

"Don't 'ma'am' me. I know exactly what I'm doing."

"But ma'am—"

"Do you want me to report this to my beloved cousin?"

"Second cousin . . ."

"_Do you?_"

A quiet _beep _breaks the silence of my compartment, a sound I know all too well: an electric key card has been scanned to open a door. When I was in the Capitol's holding facility, that sound haunted me every second of the day; it was always a question of _when will I hear it next? How many soldiers will get me this time? How much pain will I have to suffer through? How long until this next torture session will be over?_

I force myself to push the memories away, knowing they're the only reason I'm hallucinating these voices and sounds.

A second later, the door to my compartment slides open, revealing the imposing silhouettes of a man and a woman. So this wasn't all a figment of my imagination. No, no, they're actually coming to get me; coming to _hurt _me.

"Where . . . Ah, there he is. Now, I'd like to do this myself, if you don't mind. Don't want to risk you screwing this up as well."

"But—"

"Where do you hail from, officer?"

"District 2."

"And where is it _I _come from?"

"The Capitol."

"Exactly. Last time I checked, your people were perfectly happy to follow mine. Must I call my dear cousin and tell him this is not the case?"

"Second cous—"

"_Must I_?"

". . . No."

"Good. Off you go, then. I'm sure you've got some terribly important duties to conduct elsewhere."

The echo of two pairs of footsteps fill the compartment, the heavy ones distancing themselves from my position while, to my horror, the _clack-clacking_ of high heels near me. Desperately, I curl into an even tighter ball, protecting all of my vitals. Not that that matters though, when the goal is to cause pain; the body can feel pain anywhere. _No, no, please, not again, I can't bear it, I can't . . ._

The footfalls stop before they reach me, but the sound they make is still echoing in my ears, twisting and turning into more ominous noises as control of my fear begins to slip through my fingers once more. _The clatter of knives and scalpels being rearranged on a tray. The _thump, thump _of unarmed blows. And the screaming, always the screaming and the crying and them yelling for answers._

"So, Mack Ramaye, correct?"

"Yes," I choke out before I can stop myself. I thought my throat had closed up past the point of allowing words through, but I guess the fear of pain is stronger still. In the world I've come to know, when someone with that accent asks a question, you answer.

"Thought so. I read your file. Interesting stuff . . . you can look at me, Mr. Ramaye, I'm not going to turn you to stone."

I don't dare take my hands away from my eyes; not if I'm going to see another blank-faced Capitolite coming at me with a bloodied scalpel, repeating over and over, "What are District Six's plans for the war? What are District Six's plans for the war? What are District Six's plans for the war?" _Not again, not again, NO!_

I cry out as foreign fingers wrap around my wrist but resist the overwhelming urge to struggle; struggling means more pain, more "lessons" in obedience. Seeing as I don't resist, my hands are pulled all too easily away from my face, but I do manage to keep my eyes shut, clinging to the desperate hope that if I can't see the horrors around me, maybe they'll go away._ Please, please just go away._

"I tire quickly of this game, Mr. Ramaye and if you're going to continue like this, I might as well go back and get the Peacekeeper to deal with you. And after I went through all that trouble to bring a peace offering."

Suddenly, through the fog of fear and painful memories, something else registers in my mind. I can smell something new, an aroma I wasn't aware of before. I breathe it in and find myself nearly tearing up; it smells so _good_. Warm and hearty, bringing back memories of family dinners and my mother cooking when my brothers were sick. It smells like home, like safety and comfort and peace and chicken soup.

My stomach twists and groans in longing—I haven't eaten anything since the day before I was ushered onto the train and, even then, that was only the same grey paste I've become accustomed to over the past nine months. I can't remember the last time I had real food.

Despite myself, I open my eyes and nearly jump back to find a bowl of soup right in front of me, being waved back and forth beneath by nose by a woman who, with her bright blue hair and skin embedded with sapphires, can only be a Capitol citizen.

"Ah, there we go. Thought that might work. Don't hide those eyes, dear, especially when they're so pretty."

I've never seen a smiling Capitolite before; it's unnerving, particularly when one's kneeling on the ground right in front of me. My heart rate starts to quicken and I can feel my breathing growing shallower by the second. What does this mean, why is she here and why has she brought me food? Is the soup some sort of trick, or a trap? What is this woman going to do to me?

"No, no, we're not going to go through that again," the woman says, her electric blue eyes watching as my face drains of colour. "Mind you, I suppose the panic is partly my fault, yes? All right, what if I leave _this _here," she sets the bowl of soup and a plastic spoon on the ground, "and go stand over here? Better?"

She leans against a large crate about a metre away from where I sit and stares expectantly at me, as though waiting for a response. But I don't know what to say, don't know what to respond—I'm still so confused as to what's going on. She seems to almost . . . care about what I'm feeling. Why would a Capitolite bother tending to me, after all they've put me through? Is this a trick?

"Perhaps introducing myself will get you to open up," the woman muses, hopping up so she can sit on the crate. "Very well. My name is Azura Mariness, but call me Blue. Everyone does."

She pauses, waiting. I stare up at her, still silent, still terrified this is some sort of torturous mind game the Capitol is trying to play. What if this is all a part of it? What if they never intended to let me go back to 8?

Azura sighs as the silence continues. "And I'm Mack Ramaye," she continues, adopting a lower tone of voice. "Sole survivor of Squad Eight-Eleven and a seventeen-year-old, possibly mute, boy. Nice to meet you."

Unexpectedly, her words awaken something within me that bypasses the fear and confusion. Despite my terror, I force myself to ask for clarification. "S— . . . s— . . ."

Azura pauses, an incredulous expression on her face as she watches me struggle to speak. "S-sole . . . sole s-survivor?" I finally manage to choke out. In my mind, fifteen faces, faces I thought I had long since forgotten, flash through my head.

"He speaks! Wonderful." Azura claps her hands then, almost instantaneously, adopts a more solemn demeanour. "And yes, sole survivor. The others died back in the Capitol. I thought you knew, but I guess, being kept in individual cells . . . you had no idea, did you?"

There were sixteen of us in my squad. Sixteen of us taken by the Capitol and only I, the youngest, the least experienced, made it out. How did that happen? How could our leader, their second-in-command, all the other soldiers . . . how could they be dead?

Azura watches as I struggle to control my breathing, but, despite my efforts, the sobs are building up in my throat and my eyes are stinging from the forming tears. "Hey, on the bright side, you made it out!" she says, clapping her hands together loudly. I drag the dirty, ripped sleeve of the uniform I've worn for nine months across my face, trying to soak up any tears before they fall.

Azura sighs once again as I continue to sit in silence. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"S-sorry?" An outburst was synonymous with pain when I was still kept in a cell, but I can't stop myself as I gaze up at Azura, feeling my eyes widening in incredulity.

"Yes. Just because we were on opposite sides of the war doesn't mean I can't feel sorry for all the district men and women who died." Azura blows a strand of blue hair out of her eyes in irritation. "I told Orion, he's going about this all wrong. If we don't act sympathetic to the district people and their plights, then we're going to have another war on our hands."

"If the Capitol was sympathetic to the districts, then they would have treated us better and the rebellion never would have happened."

This time, Azura's the one who sits in silence, staring at me. My jaw snaps shut immediately—did I really just say that? No, no, that was a terrible thing to say! Outbursts like that mean punishment, _deserve_ punishment.

"_Remember, scum, you are nothing more than the lowliest cretin on this planet and are in no way worthy to speak unless you're answering my question. Do you understand?"_

"_Yes, yes, I do! Please . . . please don't hurt me."_

"_Hm, that last part wasn't an answer to my question, was it? You know what that means."_

I shrink back against the wall even more, trembling at the sight of Azura and just waiting for her to hit me. But all she does is speak.

"I'm not going to debate the politics of war with you, Mr. Ramaye." Her tone is much flatter than it used to be. "Because, right now, I think you're a sweet boy. And I don't want to hate you, which I surely would if we had that argument. But I can see my presence is wearing on your nerves. I'll take my leave, then, and you can eat the soup _I _brought you," the emphasis she places on those words is impossible to miss, "in peace. All right?"

She stands sitffly and makes her way back towards the door. "Oh, and we'll be arriving at Eight in about twenty minutes. Eat up."

She shuts the door, leaving me surrounded in darkness once again.

* * *

><p><strong>HUON MILENARIO, 17, DISTRICT 7<strong>

I like the quiet. It's why I moved into The Underbrush, one of few of 7's forests that weren't burned down during the war. Out here, the only sounds are the animals, the wind through the trees and my own breath as I trek out to the spot where I set my traps.

This is why, when I hear the sounds of two pairs of footfalls, my mood immediately dampens. Seriously, today? The Capitol is already forcing us all to gather in large masses for their reaping ceremony this afternoon, and I'll be forced to interact with plenty of people then. Can't I have some peace and quiet, just for this morning?

Apparently not—a moment later, the bushes nearest me rustle and out stumble two teenagers wearing matching brown jackets with a bear insignia on the back. _Damn_. They're not even strangers, who I could mostly ignore; I know these guys, and worse, I know them to be chatty as hell.

"Huon?" Sypress laughs. "Oh man, it is you! How've you been, buddy?"

"It's been ages!" Banian agrees, stepping forward and clapping me on the shoulder. "Where've you been hiding all this time?"

"Here," I grunt, trying to figure out how to answer them in as few words as possible. It's not that I dislike Sypress and Banian, necessarily; I've just, well, I've been kind of turned off of people in general lately.

"Right, you live in the forest now! There were rumours floating around the barracks about that." Sypress whistles. "So, you're really living off the land, eh?"

"Yep. Heading to one of my hunting traps right now." _So please leave. Please._

"Really? Sweet! We'll come with you, then." Banian grins, sliding his bow off his shoulder and holding it up in a heroic pose. "Can't let those bears get to you!"

They've really taken away the Hunters' guns then. I'd heard about it, but seeing the proof only serves to reinforce how dumb the idea is. Yes, the Capitol may be paranoid about another revolt, but forcing Hunters to use bows and arrows, weapons nearly no one has experience with? Sure, the rebels wouldn't be able to use them, but neither can the guys trying to do their job.

"You know, I really hate these things," Banian says as we set off, giving voice to my thoughts. He stares distastefully at the bow in his hands. "Can't shoot worth a damn. Honestly, if I find a bear, I'll probably just ditch the bow and use the arrow like a knife."

"That's why they put you with me." Sypress beams smugly. "Gotta balance out the worst in the ranks with the best."

"You are _not _the best in the ranks, you arrogant dweeb." Banian rolls his eyes and, to my dismay, elbows me—I'd been hoping to be left out of the conversation. "Man, why'd you have to leave me with idiots like this, huh, Huon?"

"Yeah, actually, why _did_ you leave?" Sypress asks, a look in his eyes that tells me he's seriously expecting an answer. Still, I let the silence stretch out for a while, until I realise I can't leave them hanging any longer.

"Job didn't appeal to me anymore," I mutter quietly, hoping that's enough for them. Sure, I didn't mind being a Hunter when I was younger; it's a career path lots of orphans choose, and hey, it's more interesting than chopping wood for the rest of your life. District 7 forests are filled with all sorts of dangerous animals, most notably bears, and someone's gotta take 'em out so the lumberjacks are safe to do their thing. It was a good line of work, right up until the rebellion started. After I came back from being a soldier, I don't know, I just couldn't be a Hunter.

"Well, you were probably smart to ditch," Banian says, ducking under a low-hanging branch. "It's gotten a lot suckier lately. I mean, we've got these dumb things now," he shakes his bow in disgust, "Plus we're not allowed to keep the meat from the animals we kill. Capitol takes possession of all of it."

"Bastards," Syress mutters. "We haven't had a good meal in months."

We climb over a small hill and both boys whistle at the sight of what's below. "Whoa," Banian says, sliding down the pile of dirt and dead leaves for a closer look. "Huon, you do this? Dude, this is totally boss."

A panicked doe is trapped in my snare, her head caught in a tightened noose of strong, sturdy rope. The Hunter boys marvel at the craftsmanship as they circle the animal, careful not to get too close to her rearing legs. "So you do this a lot?" Sypress chuckles. "So cool. But hey, don't let us stop you."

I stand in front of the doe, my hunting knife out of my backpack and half-raised. Banian and Sypress are both staring expectantly at me, waiting for me to finish the job, but I just . . . I can't. Damn it, it's going to be one of those days.

Sometimes, I'm absolutely fine. Finish off the animals I've snared no problem, take them home, skin them, carve them up, whatever. But sometimes I freeze, right before I deliver the killing blow, because I don't see an animal, I see a man, trapped and writhing, begging me not to kill him in his ridiculous Capitol accent as I raise my gun, my commanding officer ordering me to shoot.

"_No, no, please, I have a family back home, children! I never wanted to hurt the districts, I just want to keep my family safe, please—"_

"_Do it, Milenario, what are you waiting for?"_

"_Please—"_

_BANG!_

"Tell you what," I say, taking a step back and sliding my hunting knife back into its sheath. "It's all yours. Share it with the other Hunters. You guys deserve some good food."

I ignore the cries of gratitude and happiness that rise from Banian and Sypress's lips as their faces break out in wide grins. Instead, I simply turn around and walk right back up the hill, heading home, back to my paradise of solitude.

Not fast enough though; I'm not yet over the ridge when I hear the quiet, dying squeal from the doe as the boys finish her off.

"_Please—"_

_BANG!_

My hands go to my temples and rub them furiously, as if that will shake out all the unwanted memories. Why won't they leave? What is wrong with me?

* * *

><p><strong>AELIA CASSIONUS, 15, DISTRICT 2<strong>

Cleaning duty. Ugh, is there anything worse? Don't get me wrong, I hated spending the day in school too, but now they're forcing us to clean up all the military bases that got trashed during the war? I lean on my broom and stare around the messy break room hopelessly. What was our mayor thinking? I mean, what about my education? How dare the government deprive myself and thousands of other Twovians from the learning they deserve!

Wow, I must be _really _bored if I would actually rather be in school right now. Seriously though, can't something at least _moderately_ exciting happen for once?

"'Lia! 'Lia, look what I found!"

Why do I always have to be careful what I wish for?

"Mark!" It's hard to scream and keep your voice down at the same time, but somehow, I always manage. Maybe I should become a librarian. "Put that down!"

Marcus laughs, tossing the gun from one hand to the other. "Relax, will you? Doubt it works anymore, the Peacekeepers would have taken it out otherwise."

"Maybe they missed it considering most of them aren't giant doofuses who try to swing from fans!" Like myself, Mark tends to get bored very easily; unlike myself, however, he actually does something about it instead of sulking silently, which usually winds up with him in trouble and me dragged into the mess. Right now he's still balanced on a stack of three chairs, which he was using to reach the room's large fan until he found the gun taped to the top of one of the blades. "Put it back and get down from there, you're going to fall!"

He rolls his eyes and hops down from his little tower, the gun still clutched in his hand. "What do you think it was like, huh?" he asks, holding the gun out in front of him and pretending to fire at the torn paintings on the walls. Man, when 8's forces invaded this base, they really didn't leave anything untouched. "Being out there, fighting for peace? Pew, pew, pew, you lousy lower district scum!"

"'Pew' is a laser sound effect, not an actual gun sound, idiot."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise I was in the presence of the Onomatopoeia Police." He sticks out his tongue and pretends to shoot me. "How would you know what a real gun sounds like anyways?"

"Movies, duh."

"That's not the same thing as real life."

"It's as close as you've ever gotten."

My friend has no comeback for that except to scowl in my direction. During the war, Mark hated being kept at home, watched by his older sister while his parents went out to fight and risk their lives; I, on the other hand, was perfectly content to have nothing to do with the rebellion. I mean, I'm fifteen, for goodness sake! Children have no place being in a war.

"Yeah, well, I should've been out there," Mark says, adopting that dark, serious expression that I know means he's thinking of his dead father. "I would have been a great soldier. Nobody would have even seen me coming—I'd just sneak up behind them and BA—!"

BAM!

Both of us stare in shock at the small, round hole that was just blasted through the sofa. My ears are still ringing from the gunshot, and it feels as though my eyes are about to pop out of their sockets. Mark's expression looks quite similar.

"I didn't . . ." He stares at the smoking end of the gun, mouth agape. "I didn't know it still worked . . ."

It's as though breaking the silence also breaks the paralysis I feel. With a gasp, I lunge forwards, my hands lashing out to slap Mark repeatedly on the shoulder. "You crazy wacko! You had that thing pointed at _me_ earlier! For the love of Panem, you could have killed me, you nut!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I want to murder him because he's getting that look on his face that tells me he's going to start making jokes about this, but as the sound of pounding footsteps reach our ears, the light-hearted expression disappears. "Crap. Someone heard. Crap! If I get in trouble again, who knows what the Peacekeepers will do to me?"

I'm fully ready to tell him whatever it is, he deserves it, but before I can even open my mouth, he shoves the gun into my hand. "Please, 'Lia, you have to take the fall for me!"

"_What_?!"

"Just this once! I promise I'll make it up to you, but they've warned me three times now that if I do something again—"

"I'm not taking the blame for this, you lunatic!"

"Please?"

"No!"

"I will buy you ice cream every day for a month."

Curse him! Mark knows all my weaknesses. "Fine," I hiss as the footsteps sound right outside the door. "But just so you know, you're signing up for double scoops and waffle cones."

He doesn't have time to argue; the door to the bunker's break room slams open, revealing two concerned Peacekeepers standing outside. "What happened?" the younger guy says frantically, running a hand through his red hair. "We thought we heard a gunshot."

"Uh, yeah," I say, egged on by an elbow to my gut from Mark. "Sorry 'bout that. We, uh, I found this and was just playing around. Thought it wasn't working but . . ." I peter out and gesture to the hole in the couch.

The ginger Peacekeeper just seems relieved, but his partner is still watching us with a stern and, dare I say, suspicious expression. "Playing around?" he says slowly, nearly breaking me with the might of his disappointed glare. "Were you not told at the beginning of your job that any weapons found are to be reported straight away and _not_ touched?"

I look at my toes; man, I'm not even the one responsible and I feel ashamed. This guy's got some serious guilt-tripping skills. "Yes."

"So you know breaking this law could be considered treason?"

"What?" I look up sharply. "That's ridiculous! What do you think I am, a rebel supporter? I was just goofing off!"

"She was," Mark confirms, and though he's agreeing with me, I still feel a sudden urge to hit him.

The red-headed Peacekeeper puts a hand on his partner's shoulder. "Come on, they're just kids. Let's get out of here."

The stern man is still frowning at me, but as his partner steps forwards and takes the gun from my hands, he seems to relent slightly. Still, as the two men take their leave, he glances back at me with a hardcore I'm-watching-you glare.

Once they're out of sight, I punch Mark in the arm. "That's for getting me on the Peacekeepers' radar, jerk."

"Okay, first, ow," he says, rubbing his arm in pain. I know it's fake though, because a second later he breaks out into a wide grin. "And second, don't be paranoid. You saw, they don't care. Now come on, we're supposed to have this place cleaned up before the holiday festivities start and I don't want to miss 'em!"

Right—the holiday. Reaping day. Technically a day when two kids from every district are being sent off to die, but that's not true for 2. It's just a party for us; that's what everyone thinks, at least. And it's got to be true—I mean, why would the Capitol punish their most loyal supporters? They'd never let Twovian kids die.

I lean down and grab my broom from where it clattered to the ground after the gunshot. "Fine, yeah, let's hurry. And you are so buying me the biggest ice cream they've got for sale this afternoon."

* * *

><p><strong>ALOI EMATRASEAM, 15, DISTRICT 12<strong>

"I am a genius."

I glance over at the fourteen-year-old working the giant cauldron and lazily flick a strand of white-blonde hair out of my eyes. "Tell me again why I'm a genius, Darold."

"It's Dawson." The phrase comes swiftly to his lips, as though he's said it a thousand times, which he might very well have. I wouldn't know—I don't make a habit out of listening to him. "And you make me tell you like, every hour."

Do I? My, I must make an effort to pay more attention; at least, when it concerns praise directed at myself. "Oh, tell me again, Derrek, just one more time. Be a good boy and I'll give you a treat."

The boy's brow furrows. "Dawson. Honestly, you've known me for six months now." Abandoning all pretense of cooking, he discards the ladle and faces me full on, grey eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Are you doing that on purpose?"

"Doing what, David?"

Doulby stares for a moment, then, with a weary sigh, returns to his work. "You are a genius because you made the tents."

"You could do with a bit more enthusiasm, Donald. Also, wrong." Poor boy; I may have rescued him from the gutters of the district's most derelict neighbourhood, but his mind remains forever dulled, no matter what effort I make to educate him. "I made Aloisville."

"No one calls it that."

"_I _call it that, Darren. And that's really all that matters." With a broad, graceful kick, my legs glide off the armrest of my chair and I resume a proper sitting position. Darvey watches as I stand, eyes cautiously peering out under his black mop of hair, as though he's expecting me to do something rash. Silly boy—all I do is whip back the silk door of my tent and announce, in a voice I hope carries to every end of the square, "Behold, my people!"

A few citizens glance up, but otherwise, no one really seems to care—that, or they've gotten used to my constant proclamations. All in all, it's a rather sorry display of devotion, but then again, my people are a rather sorry-looking lot.

"Look at them, Daniel." Reluctantly, the boy abandons his post and inches towards me. "What do they live in?"

Another sigh—hm, perhaps the child has a breathing problem? "Tents."

"And who made those tents?"

"Well, a number of others started getting in on the business—"

"_I _made those tents. I made this whole thing. Therefore, the least this district can do to thank me is name the place after me."

Damien's mouth hangs open, ready to object, but I silence him quickly, slapping my hand over his mouth so he doesn't ruin the moment. With the sun almost directly overhead, now is as good a time as any to admire my kingdom.

To think, six months ago, this square was damaged, disgusting, and altogether offensive to every sense a human has. Yet 12's citizens flocked here; with their homes reduced to rubble puddles, they needed somewhere to go, and apparently living in the square sounded better than living on the streets. But people were unhappy: no one knew whose territory was whose, there was absolutely no semblance of privacy, and the first night it rained I swear some folk were about ready to burst. Fights would break out, chaos would rule; the square would be a disaster.

Enter our heroine! Otherwise known as Aloi Maraunia-Leslie Ematraseam, an impossibly clever, insurmountably brave fifteen-year-old girl. When my family went off to fight in the rebellion—thank Panem I was too young, war sounds gross—I was left to mind our dress shop, a position that soon became permanent after they all died. It was a struggle, for a while; I had barely enough money to support myself and, yes, during some low moments, I considered selling the store just to gain a few extra coins for food, even though it had always been my dream to run the dress shop and make whatever I wanted. But I persevered! And was rewarded with the bombing of 13, which became the main reason I discovered my most profitable talent yet: a mind for _business_.

It was obvious, really, once such a large portion of the district fell to ruin. My family's shop—or rather, _my_ shop—collapsed along with the other northern buildings; thankfully, I wasn't in it at the time. Like everyone else, I migrated to the square, but it only took a few hours and one impromptu downpour for me to realise this exposure to the elements just wouldn't do. No, Aloi Maraunia-Leslie Ematraseam was not meant to live outside like a pauper!

So, the next day, I returned to the remains of my shop, thankfully still untouched by the various scavengers that had been cropping up amongst the ruins. Wriggling into the half-collapsed building, I'd found bolts upon bolts of fabric, right where it had been left (albeit now covered with a truckload of dust and a few broken ceiling beams). It took a long while to get enough cloth out safely, not to mention finding thread and other supplies amidst the ruins of my home, but it was work I did gladly—in fact, I could barely contain my excitement. That night, sitting in the square with my spoils, I went to work.

It took me a while to make my first tent (mostly because it was mine, and thus had to be the largest and prettiest), but once I'd finished, I pitched it proudly in the square. People gawked at the sight, no doubt awestruck by the superior design, the perfect blend of purples and blues. Not to mention the fact that it served its purpose in giving me privacy, protection and comfort.

Shortly after that was when I was approached by the first family, asking if I could make something similar for them. The rest is history.

"I said stop!" Donovan, having finally succeeded in ripping my hand away from his mouth, massages his jaw with one hand and glares at me. "Like, every day, I tell you not to do that. Do you ever listen?"

"Tell me, Dean, have you ever thought of expanding Aloisville? Maybe we could encompass the whole district. Ooh, District Aloi, that's nice. Hmm, or Aloi 12 . . .?"

Davin stares at me, incredulous. Perhaps he's stunned at my genius idea. "Why do I stay with you?" he mutters, shaking his head.

Because if he didn't, he'd be out on the streets. True fact. Poor Dune is one of the many orphans 12 now holds. I'd found him shortly after I'd finished my first tent, and hired him on as an apprentice. After all, someone had to stay and guard my home from unsavoury tent-snatchers. A job I did fantastically while Daymin stumbled through the ruins, avoiding savage foragers while attempting to find materials to bring back to me.

"Hey, what's going on over there?" I barely hear Derence's question, which he seems to have anticipated; wrapping his hands around my shoulders, he turns me around until I'm looking where he wants.

At the edge of the square, right by the Justice Building, a group of new Peacekeepers in their crisp, white uniforms are having some sort of quarrel with a much shabbier-looking group of district citizens. For some strange reason, the guards appear to be protecting some purple-skinned, green-haired freak thing.

"Is that a _Capitol citizen_?" I don't know which is more evident in Deffrey's tone: the shock or the disgust.

I narrow my eyes, trying to analyse the weird, multi-coloured blob. No, Daxton's right; it _is _someone from the Capitol. The magical city where I used to want to spend my future, designing clothes for all the richest inhabitants. Then, you know, we went to war with them. I don't think they'll really let me within the confines of their metropolis now.

Then again, "giving" and "up" are two words I refuse to acknowledge as part of my vocabulary. If a Capitol citizen is here, wonderful! Perhaps they'll see my incredible taste in clothes and whisk me away from this dreary district.

Dante gives a yelp of protest as I grab his arm and yank him out of the tent, heading across the square to join the mob of district citizens.

"—kicking us out?" The arguments are growing louder and louder. Right now, one of the taller men at the front is speaking, a vein throbbing furiously in his temple as he glares at the host of Peacekeepers. "No. We already lost one home. You can't make us lose another. Especially not for something so vile as—"

"Sir, it will only be for an hour or two. But we do need the square cleared immediately." The Head Peacekeeper, Fabia Januarius, stands at the front of the crowd of law enforcement with her arms crossed and brow furrowed.

"Really, you should have expected this." The high-pitched tone is venomous, and I turn, along with everyone else, to look at the Capitolite frowning amidst the Peacekeepers. "District citizens never do what they're told. That's why so many of them are dead."

The man leading the Twelvers looks as though he's about to burst. "You take our homes," he starts, each syllable holding the carefully-pronounced quality of a man trying to keep his anger in check. "You take our families. Now you want to take our children. And you bring one of _them_," he spits, glaring murderously at the Capitolite. "You bring one of them here? No. That's where the line is drawn."

Fabia keeps watching him, her expression unwavering. "If you are unwilling to move your possessions from the square, they will be destroyed to clear the area."

Now, hold on. People's everyday possessions, fine, whatever, I don't care if those are destroyed—most of what everyone owns in 12 nowadays is junk anyways. But the tents are _mine_. At least, my creations. And none of them are going to get destroyed under my watch. "Okay, everyone!" I shout, trying to be heard over the roar of angry mutterings the crowd of Twelvers is creating. "Why don't we go and move our tents out of here, all right? People of Aloisville? Your leader is speaking! Let's move the—"

"I will only ask once more, or we will resort to force." Fabia's grey eyes are hard, unreadable. "Take your homes and your possessions and move somewhere else for the duration of the reapings."

The man's glare never falters. "Fuck. _You_."

All hell breaks loose.

12 is not normally an aggressive district—probably why we were such useless allies in the war—but push anyone enough and they'll explode eventually. The crowd of Twelvers surge forwards, yelling at the Peacekeepers and cursing the Capitol. Someone pushes me from behind and I stumble, only to hit another protester. I turn to Dashiell, opening my mouth to tell him we're leaving because I am simply _too _uncomfortable, but the words stick in my throat. He's not there. The mob has swallowed him up.

My eyes dart frantically to the faces around me, but nowhere do I find my loyal follower. "Daythan!" I shout, trying to be heard over the yells of hatred for the Capitol. "Declan! Do—"

For the second time in the span of a few short minutes, I stop short. The Peacekeepers have retreated back to the edge of square, right next to a beautiful gold and silver tent (of my _own _design, I might add). Strangely enough, none of them seem overly concerned with the wave of shouting Twelvers approaching. Instead, they unhook the sleek, silver devices they had attached to their backs and aim at the tent.

_WHOOSH!_

A pure stream of fire races out from the nozzles. I shriek in protest as the tent is engulfed, but no one hears me. 12's citizens are all running in the opposite direction now, scattering and screaming as Peacekeepers approach with flame throwers, showering the square with blasts of heat. They're aiming for the tents, I can tell, but they aren't willing to work around the panicked Twelvers. My eardrums throb as a screaming woman runs by me, one of her pant legs inflamed, and that's when it hits me. _This is not good._

I take off across the square, following the rest of the district citizens, but I hesitate once I reach the centre. This tent in front of me, the subtle blend of blues and purples: this is _my_ tent. No, they can't burn this one down! I won't let them!

I tug frantically at the fabric, trying to gather it in my arms without tearing the beautiful design, but it's too soundly attached to the sturdy frame of the tent—oh, curse my superior building skills! The smoke is billowing into my eyes now, making my vision all blurry but I can't leave, I can't! This tent is mine! I can't lose it, not after everything else, every_one_ else . . .

I shout angrily, renewing my attempts to detach the fabric, but it _won't budge. _A sudden wave of heat rushes over me, so blisteringly hot I can feel the sweat appear instantaneously on my brow, feel the burns cropping up on my exposed forearms. I glance to my left and see another burning tent, in front of which stands a Peacekeeper turning away from this latest destruction. His eyes land on me.

The flamethrower rises, its nozzle pointed in my direction, and I squeeze my eyes shut. _He just wants the tent! _my mind screams. _Leave it and run, you'll be fine!_

But I can't. There's been too much of that—leaving—going on lately; I can't contribute to it. These tents are the only family I have left.

There's a shout from somewhere to my right and is that a hand grabbing my arm? I don't know, can't bother to find out because the Peacekeeper has turned his flamethrower on and tendrils of deadly heat are racing towards me at lightning speeds. At least I won't feel death catch me up in its embrace; my brain is already shutting down from fear and, with one last glimpse of the approaching wave of flames, I fall into dark, blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

><p><strong>FENDER EXXE, 12, DISTRICT 6<strong>

"Breakfast time!" I trill with all the happiness I can muster. Maybe it'll finally sound sincere this time. "Come and get it! It's delicious!"

_Sllllorrrrp. _The thick, cylindrical mass of brown sludge oozes out of the tin can and onto the cracked plate beneath. I don't even know what it's supposed to be; I've had to ration what few candles I have left for emergencies, so most of the time I'm sitting in almost absolute darkness. Thankfully my eyes have adjusted a bit to such conditions.

"Yum." I pat Mr. Wheels on the back. "Doesn't that look great?"

I wait for an answer, even though I know one will never come. Pretty hard to talk when your mouth is a series of stiches and your internal organs are nothing but stuffing. A grown boy like me shouldn't still be talking to his toys, I know, but it's one of the only things that keeps me sane. And really, it's probably healthier than talking to—

"Miss Fewel?" I glance towards where I know the stairs are. "Would you like any of this marvellous meal?"

No response from her either. Obviously—the dead don't talk.

"No? All right, just for me, then. Thank you so much for your sacrifice, Miss Fewel." Yes, better to remember it as a sacrifice. Better to remember the last actions of my nanny as heroic, selfless, in my best interests, rather than the desperate, insane meltdown it really was. Better to think Miss Fewel caused her own death, rather than my mother's sadistic door lock.

I quickly grab my spoon and shove a large hunk of food into my mouth, as though cramming it down my throat will somehow dam up thoughts of my mother and keep them from escaping to my brain. The weird goop has a disgustingly slimy texture; Panem knows what it actually tastes like. Good think I've got my trusty clips over my nose. And I thought they'd only be useful in blocking out the smell of Miss Fewel's rotting corpse.

"Mmm, this is really good!" I say loudly, shovelling another spoonful into my mouth. In reality, it's horrendous, but gotta keep those memories down somehow. "You should really try some, Mr. Wheels!"

Almost reflexively, I prepare a spoonful to shove in the direction of the doll next to me. My nine-year-old self would have been appalled; I outgrew that kind of stuff _ages _ago. But my nine-year-old self had also never been stuck in a bunker for nearly three years with only a toy and an increasingly frantic nanny for company.

Well, not an increasingly frantic nanny anymore. As of five months ago, her franticness stopped—along with everything else in her body.

I groan, shoving more food so far down my throat that I nearly choke myself. What is _wrong _with me? These morbid thoughts are _no good_. I have to think happy thoughts, only happy thoughts. Like . . . the nice weather! I bet it's really sunny up on the surface right now. Everyone in 6 is probably out frolicking around their homes, soaking in the warmth and celebrating the day.

That seemed like a happy thought at the time, but now my heart hurts more.

With a sigh, I go for more food; it's a habit now to distract myself with it whenever I start to get sad. But the plate is empty, except for a small puddle of brown slime. It looks awful, like slug pee.

I pick up the plate and lick it clean all the same. Can't ever let food go to waste.

Still, my stomach growls loudly, like there's a monster trapped inside just waiting to get out. I desperately want to open another can, even if it's more of the same awful gunk, but I have to be careful. My food shelf has been getting dangerously empty lately; I didn't bother counting how much I have left because I don't want to know how depressingly low the number is, but even at a glance, it's easy to see I won't have anything left in a week. Mom didn't plan for me being down here for this long. She thought the war would end sooner than that. And it did, I suppose. She just didn't win like she thought she would.

I still remember the last day I saw her outside the bunker, looking so proud and imposing in her general's outfit. It had been the day of my tenth birthday, but no "happy birthday" was said, no "I love you" or "see you soon" or "I'm so proud to see you so brave." No, Mom was never that kind of mom. She was all about business.

"_You're too young to see war, Fender, and besides, what would I do if the Capitol got their hands on you? They know how much you mean to me, they would use you in any way they could to bring an end to the war. So you'll stay down here with Miss Fewel. She'll take good care of you. You'll be fine. Just, whatever you do, do _not _open this door. I'll come and get you when we've won. You do NOT leave by yourself."_

Mom could get this pretty intense look sometimes, and she did it then, grabbing my arm and boring holes into my skull with her eyes and everything. I'd never questioned her orders growing up anyways, so not touching the door was fine by me. But Miss Fewel didn't seem to understand.

For the first few months in the bunker, everything was fine. She tended to me just like she had back when we'd had a house and I amused myself by first reading, then rereading the books she'd got me for my birthday. And always we'd have our radio tuned in to District 3's main rebel station; Mom set the device up so we'd get signals, even down in the dirt like we were.

At first, it was fun to listen in on the events of the war. We clapped when 6 took control of the country's train system, cheered when the president's own daughter was killed in action on a battlefield in 9, and positively threw a party when a rebel from 6 managed to sneak into the Capitol, almost killing Orion Hausler and offing his two remaining children in the process. Everything was going so well, for Mom and all the rest of the rebels. The districts were finally going to be free from the Capitol.

Then things started to go downhill, both on the outside and here in the bunker. I'm not entirely sure which event tipped Miss Fewel over the edge, but she started to grow more and more nervous, constantly pacing, snapping at me whenever I tried to speak to her. She was an older woman, no parents or children, but she had a younger brother out fighting in the war. Every time we heard bad news, particularly when it had to do with Sixers, it chipped away at her a little more.

The culminating announcement was, of course, the proclamation of surrender, the last radio transmission before the channel went dead. Gone were the two light-hearted, bantering Threeks who had run the show before; in their place was the stone cold, accented voice of a Capitol soldier stating the districts had been crushed and the Capitol had won.

Miss Fewel had already been spiralling down into insanity at that point (as much as I tried to ignore it), but that announcement shoved her so far in that she'd never be able to claw her way back up. For a month after, she got worse and worse, talking to herself, yelling at me and ranting, always ranting about when the door would open and we would be rescued. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. I begged her not to, tried as hard as I could to stop her, but she threw me down and ran for the door all the same. My head had hit the floor, dazing me, so I didn't see what happened. But I heard it. The loud _ZAP_, the cut-off scream, and then silence. Shortly after, I caught the disturbingly mouth-watering scent of burnt meat wafting down from the stairs.

I don't want to think Mom had been that harsh in ensuring we would never leave the room. I like to think it was a malfunction on the part of the machine she set up. Perhaps it was originally intended to emit small shocks, enough to discourage further attempts at opening the door, but somehow, it messed up when Miss Fewel grabbed the doorknob. It's better to think that way; otherwise, I have to face the fact that Mom would have preferred me electrocuted and dead rather than chance me leaving the bunker.

So here I've stayed, with Mr. Wheels and a rotting corpse for the past five months. I've given up hope that Mom's coming to get me. Before she officially began the rebellion, I'd asked her if she was scared of losing the war. And she'd turned to me, super serious, and said, _"I'm not going to lose because I _can't _lose. Do you understand that, Fender? Your mother is going to be one of the primary leaders of the rebellion, which makes me a primary target of the Capitol. So if we lose, I die. Which is why we won't lose."_

Far be it from me to ever question my mother's words. If we lose, she dies—that's the truth. And we did lose. So . . .

I rub my eyes furiously, trying to drive out all the thoughts from my head. The gesture is about as successful as usual. Why do I have to think so much? Why can't I mindlessly go off and play with Mr. Wheels like I used to? When I was younger, I'd spend hours at a time in make believe worlds with my trusted companion. But I've since lost the ability to get so caught up in my imagination. My days are now spent staring listlessly at the shadows around me.

". . . is it . . .?"

. . . found it. We found it!"

I jerk to my feet, staring startled into the darkness. Were those . . . were those _voices_ I heard? Of other people? Oh, man, oh man, oh . . . oh, no. They're just hallucinations, aren't they? I've done it; I've finally sent myself over the edge, just like Miss Fewel.

"Sir, I think we've really found it!"

But I can't help straining my ears to listen in.

"I heard you the first time. What are you waiting around for? Someone open it. Gordy, go."

"Me? Wait, wait, wait. What if we're walking straight into an ambush?"

"It's a twelve-year-old kid down there, not an armada. _Go_."

"But—"

"That's an order, soldier."

I probably shouldn't be trying to listen, driving myself further towards Crazy Town. I'll never survive down here if I go nuts. But the voices just sound so _real_.

_ZAP!_

I jump back in shock. That sound . . . I know that sound. Unwanted memories resurface of Miss Fewel being fried, ones I desperately try to shove away. _That's the past, the past, the past. Miss Fewel is gone and you're all alone here._

So . . . who set off the door?

"Gordy? Gordy!"

"Sir, he's dead!"

"Damn it! Alright, everyone back away. We're going to blow the door."

"But sir, if there really is a kid down there—"

"Does it look like I give a fuck? We just lost a good man. The rebel's son can go to hell for all I care. Now, who's got the explosives?"

It finally dawns on me that I might not be crazy after all, that there might actually be real people outside speaking. Real people trying to get into the bunker. For a moment, an inexplicable happiness rises up in my chest, filling every inch of me with giddy joy. I might finally get out of here!

Then I realise if these people are trying to get me, they're likely not doing it with good intentions in mind.

_BOOM!_

The explosion rocks the very foundations of the bunker. A loud, clattering sound follows as the door is blown off its hinges, and suddenly more light than I've seen in three years streams down from the top of the staircase. Pain shoots like lightning bolts through my head and I plaster my hands in front of my eyes, wincing at the newfound brightness.

"Get down the stairs, now!"

"Where is—there!"

"It's really him!"

"Fender Exxe! Hands above your head or we _will_ shoot!"

"I can't!" I don't know why I feel like I can negotiate with these people, yet I find myself talking all the same. "I can't, it's too bright!"

No one answers, but the sound of heavy footfalls echoes around the bunker as someone approaches me. Strong hands wrap around my wrists, yanking them away and I flinch as light and pain invade my eyes. I'm only dimly aware of multiple people around me, holding my arms behind my back; the agony is too much for me to focus. But I do hear the growling voice in my ear, right before something hard smacks me across the back of my head, knocking me into unconsciousness.

"We've got you now, you son of a bitch."

* * *

><p><em><strong>With this chapter, you've now seen half the tributes! Thoughts so far?<strong>_


	4. Fear the Reaper

**MILLER SORGUM, 14, DISTRICT 9**

_Crack!_

"All right, all right, he's had enough!"

_Crack!_

"Stop it, you're going to kill him!"

_Crack!_

"It was me, it was me who didn't make the quota this morning! Miller gave his grain to me, I should be up there right now, please, stop hurting him!"

"Shut up, Riye," I try to say, but the words are barely more than a cracked whisper. "Don't . . . don't screw yourself over."

Luckily Scarn Greywick has always had it out for me. No way he'd bother listening to my friend's distant pleas, not when he finally has the opportunity to take out some long-burning frustration on the kid he hates most.

_Crack!_

I bite my lip, trying not to let a moan of pain through, but I don't entirely succeed. At least it's likely no one heard—not with Greywick bellowing over everything.

"Let this be a reminder to you, vermin," the Head Peacekeeper barks as he brings his whip down across my back once more. "You live for one sole purpose: pleasing the Capitol. Fail this goal and, well . . ."

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

How many is that now—nineteen, twenty? He's got to be getting close to the end. Rule number one after 9 was forced into overdrive to cultivate grain for the new tesserae rations: one lash for every pound of grain short you are. Riye's got a bad leg, not to mention he was nearly catatonic with worry over the reaping day thing this afternoon, and he missed twenty-three pounds. He couldn't take the pain; besides, he's got his little sister to think of. I'm a nobody. This is okay; really, it's—

_Crack!_

The lash cuts like fire across my already burning back, and this time I can't help but give a weak cry. Unfortunately, Greywick chooses that moment to pause for breath; he hears, along with who knows how many others in the crowd.

"Listen to that." I hear footsteps from behind, but nothing prepares me for the kick. Greywick's boot slams into my open wounds, sending such a shock of pain through my system that I can barely take it. My vision goes black, my anguished cry ringing in my ears; honestly, at this point, I'm hoping I'll pass out. The searing agony across my back, the humiliation of this very public beating, it's all too much.

"How the mighty have fallen." Greywick's smug voice is inches from my ear, but I don't have the strength to pull away from him. All I can do is droop against the whipping post, held up only by my bound wrists, and allow Greywick to grab my hair with his hand, yanking my head up for everyone to look. "You see? _This _is what happens when you fight against the Capitol. _This _is what happens when you disrespect your superiors. Not such an appealing way of life now, is it?"

_Thought I was being . . . being punished for not making quota. Bastard._

Of course, Greywick will take any opportunity he can get to make a point to the district, though I know this one in particular is aimed at my peers. He thinks he can crush them more by taking down the kid he believes to be their "leader".

During the war, we lost men, women, food, homes, everything—the only thing the districts gained was an abundance of young orphans. Greywick decided to take a number of us more rebellious ones on as his personal workers, adding insult to injury. All day every day, we slave away in the grain fields, and at night we're forced to serve his meals, clean his home, even, ugh, help him with his personal hygiene. Worse still, some poor kids are taken away to the Peacekeepers' barracks, where they're tasked with "entertaining" the officers. I don't even want to think about what that means.

In this way, Greywick would have broken the spirit of every kid under his command, if not for me trying to rally them together. I refuse to let him hurt other people, and I refuse to let him beat me into submission. I won't break; I won't—

_Crack!_

"All right, thank you, Head Peacekeeper Greywick," the Capitolite escort's voice booms out across the square on the loudspeakers. "We've fixed our technical problems. Please wrap up the intermission show and we shall continue with the ceremony."

_Intermission show_. Like this is some sort of sick entertainment for her and all the cameras broadcasting this live. Then again, I shouldn't be surprised; remind me again what the rules of these Hunger Games are?

Greywick sighs in disappointment, like a child whose toy was taken away, and I watch him signal to his men before he lets my head drop. Out comes his knife as he cuts away the ropes binding me to the post, making sure to nick a deep gash in my arm as he does so. I don't even have the energy to wince.

I'm dragged offstage by the collar of my barely-hanging-in-there shirt, followed by a few Peacekeepers as they move the temporary whipping post out of the way. Greywick doesn't shove me towards the section of fourteen-year-olds in the crowd though, where I can see Riye staring at me with wide-eyed anxiety. With a jolt, I realise Greywick isn't finished yet. After the ceremony is done, he's going to continue the beating, which had originally been planned to come after the reapings. I'll soon be tasting the whip again.

"Sorry for the delay," our escort says, returning to the stage and carefully stepping around the large puddle of my blood in the centre. "Our problems have been fixed however, and we should be able to continue on now. Can you hear me in the back?"

No one responds. You can feel the icy chill coming off of the crowd as they stare up at her hatefully. Not only is this woman a privileged, snot-nosed Capitolite, her only concern is with the ceremony and how the speakers work, rather than the atrocity she just witnessed to "pass the time".

Despite the lack of answer, she continues, "Well, back to the reaping, then. I believe we were going to start with the male tribute, yes? Let's see . . ."

She hops around the splatter of red across the stage and makes her way to one of two large, glass bowls. With little ceremony, she dips her hand in, grabs a paper and yanks it out. "District 9, your reaped male tribute is Miller Sorgum!"

If I'd had any energy left, I might have laughed at the universe's twisted sense of humour. Decidedly not one of my better days.

I can hear Greywick's snide chuckles even in my semi-conscious state. His hand is still on my collar, and before he drags me back up to the stage, he lifts me so our faces are nearly touching and there's nowhere I can look but his enormous smirk. "Well, what do you know? What are the odds, huh?"

Something tells me odds had nothing to do with this.

* * *

><p><strong>KALE PHUNGII, 12, DISTRICT 11<strong>

I don't think I like this room anymore. I did at first, because it was white, calming white—I love white. But now there are far too many people in here.

We had to take a bus to get down here. Nurse Cyles and a whole bunch of other staff ushered us into these big, green vehicles, which was really cool. I've never ridden in anything with a motor before. Just my family's rickety old wagon.

Speaking of my family, Nurse Cyles said they came to the hospital to see me. Wanted to come with me to this ceremony, apparently. But they couldn't, because this checkpoint is for crazies only. Well, that's not what she said, but that's what I imagine my dad would have said. Only crazies at the Shallot-Sorrel Mental Health Centre.

It's a nice hospital, a lot bigger than mine. They have a gigantic cafeteria, where we're all currently waiting, watching a big, blank screen. At least I'm not stuck in the large crowd that surrounds us kids. Most of the people in hospitals like mine were old rebels, so none of them are eligible for this . . . business (don'tthinkabouttheHungerGamesdon'tthinkaboutit). A lot of the kids who are qualified are older too, so I stand in a scant crowd of exactly nine twelve-year-olds. Probably 'cause most kids our age aren't lucky enough to get stung and only go insane, winding up in one of 11's now-populous mental health clinics—the younger you are, the higher your chances of the venom killing you. At the other hospital where I usually stay, I'm the only twelve-year-old victim of the tracker jackers set on 11 in the war.

_Don't think of those words! _That usually brings on the hallucinations, and I can't fall into one here, not with all these people around! The mood in here is frantic enough as it is; if one person melts down, I have a feeling everyone will.

"Good afternoon, District 11." I jump, thinking I've imagined the voice, but when my eyes snap open, I realise the enormous blank screen on the wall is on, showing the image of a dull-looking woman standing on a stage, a giant TV set up behind her. Is she our new mayor? I think so. The old one died off some time during the fighting.

Jicama Soi, as she introduces herself, begins a long speech about the history of Panem, starting with the days before the rebellion. I focus every bit of my concentration on her, hoping that if I do, I might be able to avoid slipping off into another hallucination, but it's hard when so many people around me are barely paying attention. Three are pulled from the room for inappropriate behaviour, shouting at whatever delusion the long-lasting effects of the toxin is making them see. My palms are getting sweaty and the corners of my vision are starting to turn gold; I don't know if I can hold on much longer.

I nearly snap when the freaky green man takes to the stage; _not a hallucination, not now! _The mood of the crowd shifts around me, more and more people showing signs of anxiety or distress. Funny enough, that actually makes me feel a bit better; if they're nervous about this man, then he must be real. I'm not hallucinating.

Unless I'm imagining everyone else's reactions as well.

"Hello everyone!" The man paces from one side of the stage to the other, waving his arms. "My name is Tiberian Otho and I suppose I'm here to be your escort! Well, I don't suppose, I _know_, it's just . . . sorry, if you can't tell, I'm a bit nervous about all this." He laughs. "I mean, this is actually my first time out of the Capitol, if you'd believe it. Let me tell you, I'd heard a lot of, er, questionable things about the districts, but honestly, I love what I've seen so far!"

The video on the screen is being broadcasted live from District 11's main square, which is where all the merchants and upper class live. If Tiberian ventured out past the city's perimeter, he'd quickly find 11 isn't nearly as nice as he thinks. I'm sure it wouldn't take him long to run into his first tracker jacker nest.

_No. No, stop it. _The low buzzing sound is back in my ears, and as much as I want to clamp my hands over them, I know it won't do me any good. _Not here. Not now._

"Anyways, I suppose I should do a bit of explaining! You all heard the announcement a month ago, of course . . . you do get TV out here, yes? Good, good—anyone happen to catch the episode of Dress Disaster last night? Sorry, I'm getting off topic—it was just _such _a good . . . ah, never mind. Anyways, again, most of you out there are probably watching this on a live feed somewhere in the district. Everyone say hello to them!"

Tiberian looks directly into the camera and waves his hand wildly. It then cuts to a shot of the packed square before him, mostly filled with sullen or terrified kids. None of them so much as lift a finger.

"So if you're out there," Tiberian continues, back onscreen, "You should be able to see one of my lovely representatives somewhere in your vicinity. Will they please give their crowds a wave?"

Up at the front of the cafeteria, below the big screen, a scowling woman slouching against the wall raises a hand.

"If I call your name and you aren't in this main square, then you will walk up to the man or woman who just waved. They'll handle things from there. And make sure to smile if you're reaped! The cameras are always rolling, after all!"

There's only one in the cafeteria, perched high on a table so everyone is in its view, and is it just my imagination (I really, really hope it isn't) or is the man operating it sleeping? Honestly, though, who can blame him? It's unlikely anyone from here will be picked, right? I may be slightly crazy, but I'm lucid enough to get that these Hunger Games were clearly created for punishing rebels who still think they can fight back. No one here has an inkling of spirit left in them, I can tell you that.

"So, without further ado, ladies first!" Tiberian gives a hesitant grin to the crowd, as though waiting for some sort of response, but silence is all that answers him. No cheering and clapping like I bet he was hoping, and no fighting or insults like I'm sure some of the rebels wanted. Maybe the other districts will show more defiance, but we Elevians have been living in hell for far too long.

"And your female tribute will be . . ." Tiberian digs his hand around in a glass bowl before yanking out a slip of paper. "Arbor Krawp!"

The camera stays on Tiberian as he turns to look at the enormous screen behind him, waiting for the girl who was picked to show up. It takes a few seconds for them to find her, but then the shot switches to the interior of what looks like a gigantic orange and yellow tent. Yellow . . . no, that's not a good colour. Too close to gold, which is the colour of . . . _don't Don't think it._

Fortunately, the camera quickly zooms in on the reaped girl and any yellow colour disappears from view, prompting a sigh of relief from me. The soothed feeling doesn't last long though; I feel too bad for the girl onscreen, who seems to have frozen in shock. She can't be more than fourteen.

"Wonderful!" Tiberian is back on the TV, beaming at the crowd. "She looks like a lovely young lady, doesn't she? Now, boys next!"

Beside me, a twelve-year-old breaks down, screaming at monsters only he can see. The nurses hurry quickly to his side and bring him away from the rest of us, but not soon enough; I can still hear his cries in my ears, gluing themselves to the inside of my brain. _"Monsters! Monsters! Monsters!"_

The scary thing is, I can't tell if he's gone nuts, or is simply seeing reality for what it really is.

"And District 11's male tribute will be . . ." Tiberian flounces over to the other glass bowl holding and dips his hand inside. It should be reassuring to see the amount of papers he sifts through; I know my name is only in there once. But my eye is twitching and I can feel sweat beading along my forehead, hear my breath coming in hitched gasps. _It's okay. It's okay. Stay rooted in reality. You'll be okay. You're not going to—_

"Kale Phungii!"

_Snap._

All rational thoughts disappear from my brain, pushed aside by panic and the tracker jacker venom still messing with my system. My mouth drops open in one long, uninterrupted scream as, up front, the massive screen breaks in two, coming apart like a giant set of lips, beneath which I can see the tips of deadly fangs. The disembodied mouth starts gnashing its teeth violently; it wants to eat me, I know it does. But I won't let it, I won't let it!

I turn to run, still shrieking, but two monsters stand in my way. Monsters glaring at me with demonic golden eyes, eyes that buzz and thrum and peel away from their sockets to come at me, stingers going straight for my heart.

"No! NO!" I have to get away, have to run, but the monsters have grabbed me and the tracker jackers are stinging me and everywhere is pain, pain and chaos. The smallest voice in the back of my mind knows this isn't real, knows the monsters are Peacekeepers and the giant mouth is a screen and I want to wake up from this now but I can't, _I can't_. Because however bad this nightmare is, reality is far, far worse.

* * *

><p><strong>SABLE BRANDMERE, 17, DISTRICT 10<strong>

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!_

This is what replaces the _thump, thump _of my heart beat as I race through the empty hall of the stadium. I can hear the murmuring of the crowd through the thin walls, the occasional shouts from Peacekeepers and the indecipherable, booming voice of the Capitolite speaking into the microphone, but nowhere nearby do I hear the sound of running feet chasing me down. I wasn't seen slipping away then. Good.

I take a left turn and wind up in the old stables of the horse-racing arena. They're empty, of course; rebels took every last horse to aid in the war, as though our common stallions could stand up to the hovercrafts and tanks and mutts of the Capitol.

I know, stupid, right? I'd tried to make the soldiers see reason too, but they wouldn't hear it. Cleared out every last stall.

Out of habit, my feet take me to the third alcove on the left, the one where Hansi used to be. She was the best of the best, finest horse in all of 10; believe me, horses are my business. Me and the gang, we used to run the races—rigged 'em too, before the war. Hey, everyone's got to make a living.

I close the door to the stall and sit amongst the old hay, finally allowing myself a moment to breathe. Thank goodness they decided to hold this stupid ceremony here in Sagebrush Downs, one of the only places large enough to fit 10's entire population. I've lived in this arena all my life with the gang, know all its nooks and crannies. During the reapings, they had all the teens down where the tracks used to be while adults and little kids watched from the bleachers above; I was with the other seventeen-year-olds, towards the back, and made sure to get a spot right by the wall and the door nearby, just in case.

Good thing I did too, or I'd be up on that stage right now with that damn Capitolite screeching in my ear. It hit me as soon as she called my name: _I can't let this happen_. I don't care how many people think the Capitol is bluffing with this Hunger Games crap, I wasn't sticking around to find out. The girl whose name was called, Fascia, she'd already tried resisting and had gotten a black eye for her troubles. I'm at least three inches shorter than her, with a much more lithe and willowy figure compared to her muscled, bull-like build—there was no way I'd be able to escape my fate by force. Which left me with only one option, the one I've lived my whole life by: sneak away.

Now that the immediate worry is over, enough of my usual attitude returns for me to chuckle at the memory. Dumbass Peacekeepers didn't even notice me leave—so much for our stellar law enforcement. They'll never find me here either, I'm sure of it. Inside the arena is a mess of tunnels, the most confusing maze you'll ever come across; only those living here as long as I have could ever find their way around. Even if the Peacekeepers _did_ find me, it'd take them hours of searching first, and I doubt they'd want to delay their precious ceremony that long. Nah, more likely they'll just pick some new random guy from the crowd and be done with it. I chuckle to myself again and lean my head back against the stall's wall; I'm going to be just fine.

Literally one second, _one _second after that thought crosses my mind, someone kicks the stall door in. I leap to my feet, yanking my switchblade out of my pocket, but no matter how tough growing up on the bad side of 10 has made me, I know there's no way I could win with four inches of steel against Peacekeeper guns.

Fortunately, it's not the Peacekeepers who've come a-knocking. "Hannigan." I sigh in relief, flicking my blade closed. "Damn, don't scare me like that."

Of course it had to be Landrake Hannigan who snuck up on me—anyone else I would have heard coming. But this man is the master, literally. Took me in when I was a kid (yeah, that's right, I was an orphan _before _the war made it mainstream) and raised me along with his other criminal followers until we formed one of 10's more notorious gangs. I can see everyone else gathered behind Hannigan's large frame: Angus, Gertrude, Morgan, Timm. The main gang's all here.

"So, what exactly are you all doing here?"

Morgan rolls her eyes, as though I've asked the stupidest question. She's the youngest besides me, only nineteen, yet she insists she's an adult and I'm an irresponsible kid—bitch will always be my least favourite. "You've cause quite the stir out there. That Capitol man out there is all worked up."

"Good," I say, tossing her an equally condescending stare. "What, did you expect me to stand there and take his crap?"

"No," Hannigan says, his low voice always managing to shut everyone up. "You did good, kid. Running away."

I smirk in Morgan's direction. "Well, _thank you_, Hannigan."

It takes a second for me to realise through my cloud of victory that Morgan's smug expression hasn't shifted. Another second to think _something's off_.

But even with my reflexes, I'm not quicker than the master and his gang. They're on me before I can blink, Morgan and Timm grabbing my arms while Angus and Gertrude go for my legs, dragging them up into the air and holding on so tight I don't have a hope in hell of kicking free.

"What the fuck?!" I sputter as they drag me out of the stable. "Oi, what the hell is this?"

"I told you, you did good," Hannigan says, walking beside me as the gang carts me back down the hall, back towards . . . oh, shit. "Capitol doesn't want to be shown up by having a kid escape their reaping. Escort offered a reward to the people that bring you back. He was referring to the Peacekeepers, but—"

"But those idiots wouldn't know the first place to look," Morgan says, smirking down at me. "Whereas we know you to be all too predictable, Sable dear."

"_What_?!" I can't believe this—no, this has to be some sort of stupid prank. "Come on, put me down! You can't turn me in! I thought, I thought we were a . . ."

I stop, realising my mistake, but not before Morgan catches on. "What, a family?" She laughs, a high-pitched, grating laugh that would wear on my nerves if I wasn't too focused on my sinking heart. "And _that's _why you never would have survived with us in the long run, kid. Sable the sentimental. You're far too soft."

"Shut up, bitch, I am _not_—"

"Wah, wah, my favourite horse got stolen! She was my only true friend! Boohoo." Morgan stops her fake crying and sneers down at me. "That sound like a cold-hearted criminal to you?"

I'm furious with Morgan and want to spit venomous insults right back in her face, yet no comebacks come to mind. I don't want to admit it, don't even want to _think_ about it as true, but I can't find it in myself to deny Morgan's words. I _was_ upset when Hansi was taken, more upset than I'd ever been in my life.

And, it turns out she was my only true friend.

"Come on, Hannigan." I want to curse myself for sounding like a whining, pleading child, but I refuse to believe this man who raised me would so easily give me up for slaughter. "You don't want to do this! I'm worth more than whatever measly reward you get, you know it! Come on, in a few years I'll be the best pickpocket 10 has ever seen, and then—"

Morgan laughs. "Look at him, thinking he's so irreplaceable. Newsflash, Sable, the rebellion has left behind plenty of orphans willing to dip into crime. We can replace you with a dozen better kids."

I refuse to take her scathing reply as an answer, keeping my gaze focused on Hannigan and waiting for him to respond, but he doesn't. My boss has always been a man of few words, allowing his expression to speak for him.

Right now, he looks calm, casual, unconcerned. I-I can't believe it. Am I really that expendable?

The thought paralyses me for the rest of the trip out of the arena. I don't even struggle as the gang hands me over to the Peacekeepers, loudly proclaiming to the Capitol escort that they were the ones to find me. No one in the crowd objects as I'm dragged up to the stage, the same way no one helped Fascia Shewart with her resistance attempt; those here in 10 are much more concerned with saving their own skin rather than trying and failing to defy the Capitol.

The Capitol escort throws a glare my way and hurriedly wraps up the ceremony, but he's interrupted by a shout from Hannigan. Despite all that's just happened, I still want to believe he's yelling to save me, and I hate myself for it, for being weak, for actually caring. "Oi! What about our reward?"

The Capitol man glares down his nose at my scruffy ex-gang. "I should think helping your superiors is its _own_ reward. Good day, District 10."

The Peacekeepers pull me offstage, but not before I glimpse the angry expressions of Hannigan and the rest. They're not even mad they sent one of their own off to die for nothing, though; just that they didn't get their promised pay. _Bastards. _Hate is all I want to feel, hate for them, hate for the Capitol, hate for everything and everyone around me. But the only emotions in my heart are the bitter stings of betrayal, despair and loneliness.

* * *

><p><strong>SEQUOIA PENDUNCULAT, 12, DISTRICT 7<strong>

Why does it always have to be like this? Why?

A kid comes flying out of the seething crowd, shoved to the ground by accident or on purpose, who knows. I go to help him, but before I can even take a step in his direction, he springs up and launches himself back into the fray. He can't be any older than me, yet the look on his face as he tries to tackle the nearest Peacekeeper is so, so _angry_. No kid should ever look that furious. No _one _should ever look that furious.

Yet that's all you can see on the faces of the rioting people from 7. Fury and loathing and pure animosity.

Strangely enough, I thought this ceremony might actually help my district. 7 is so big that you rarely see anyone outside of your respective town; I figured bringing everyone together would have brought back the sense of unity we were so desperately missing. Admittedly, the reaping isn't taking place in the best location; the blackened field that was once 7's most lush forest still looks miserable, but as the Peacekeepers were ushering me to the twelve-year-old section, I caught sight of something that made my heart leap. A baby sapling, poking out from around the corner of the temporarily-erected stage. The forest is growing back, healing; perhaps that means the district can too.

A group of thirteen-year-olds leap on a Peacekeeper, who swings his baton wildly, trying to fend them off. Two go down hard as the stick whacks them, but three more are clawing at his uniform, pounding every inch of his body with their fists. They look like animals.

The Capitolite's appearance set it off. Everyone could stomach our new Capitol-suck-up mayor, and they even managed to keep their complaints to themselves during the reading of the incredibly inaccurate history of the war and the new Treaty of Treason. But when the Capitolite appeared, declaring she would be drawing the names of two children and not hiding the fact that these kids would likely die in less than two weeks, the crowd went berserk. Twenty thousand men, women and children were gathered for the reapings, and whether they were watching the stage or one of the many screens set up along the perimeter of the crowd, the spark of rebellion touched them all. Now everything is absolute chaos.

"Please," I whisper. "Please stop this." It's silly—I know no one can hear me, and I don't know which one I'm talking to anyways. Do I want my district to stop fighting? Do I want the Capitol to stop reducing us to this? I don't know; I just want the violence, the pain, the suffering to stop.

"Ma'am, we need to get you somewhere safe _now_." The twelve-year-olds were put closest to the stage, and even having moved away from that spot and the fighting like I can have, I can still hear the Head Peacekeeper shouting as he ascends the steps towards the Capitolite. "We've got a truck waiting—hurry, this way!"

"I haven't even picked a tribute yet!"

"There's no time—"

"No time my ass. I am _not _letting these fuckers escape punishment because they refuse to play nice. Grab kids from the crowd."

"It's too dangerous!"

The Capitolite scoffs. "Oh, I'm sorry, forgive me for thinking I was dealing with _trained fucking soldiers_."

The Head Peacekeeper's usually stoic expression has broken; he looks desperate, concerned and stubbornly resolute all at once. "We've lost countless men and women to riots over the past six months. I won't put my officers through that again. We're pulling out."

"Not before you get me my damn tributes. Grab ones on the edge of the fighting if you're so scared to get close to it."

"There _is_ no edge to the fighting." But even as he says it, the Head Peacekeeper's eyes scan the crowd and land directly on me. As one of the only people not throwing punches at the law enforcement, I stick out like a sore thumb, and I'm about as far from the violence as I can get.

_Oh no._

I want to move, want to run, but something keeps me rooted to the spot as the Head Peacekeeper barks out orders to the nearest group of soldiers. Two of them head off in a different direction, likely looking for another kid outside of the fighting, but the other two are on me before I can flinch. They go to grab me by the arms, but I hear myself say, "It's okay. I'll come quietly," before walking mechanically towards the stage.

I don't know what's come over me. Inwardly, I can't decide if my mind is screaming or crying or melting down, but somehow my reflexes have kicked in, and I've fallen back to what I usually do: try not to hinder anyone. Fighting won't get me anywhere, and even if it did, could I really hurt these Peacekeepers? They've caused the district so much pain, but they haven't been entirely exempt from the suffering either.

I come to a stop by the Head Peacekeeper, who's looking at me suspiciously, as though expecting me to snap and start punching him at any moment. Seconds later, the other two Peacekeepers return, escorting another kid between them. I have to say, I'm shocked; the boy they've got looks at least seventeen, tall and well-built—he seems exactly the type to participate in the riot. Yet he makes no move to join the fight as he watches the violence with hollow brown eyes; in fact, though he's trying to hide it, he actually looks a bit sick.

"Oi! You little fuckers!" My gaze snaps away from the boy (my partner now, I suppose) and turns fearfully to the Capitolite, who's glaring down her nose at us. "Names. Now."

"S-Sequoia Pendunculat," I stammer.

The boy murmurs something too quiet for me to hear, but the escort must have caught it because she turns towards the brawling crowd and shouts at the top of her lungs, "Sequoia Pundunculat and Huon Milenario, your tributes, District 7! Thank you _kindly_ for your cooperation."

* * *

><p><strong>ZIBELINE TASSLE, 16, DISTRICT 8<strong>

"—volunteering works as follows. When I call out a name, another eligible child of the same gender may offer themselves as tribute by raising their hand in the air and stating 'I volunteer', nice and loud for everyone to hear. If the reaped tribute is willing, they may generously give up their place for the volunteer. However, participating in the Hunger Games is an enormous honour, with a chance to win fame and fortune! So, if the reaped child wishes to remain as the chosen tribute—"

"Yeah, yeah, like any idiot would actually volunteer for these ridiculous Games," Weeve mutters beside me. I can't say she's wrong.

To my left, the crowd parts slightly as Nyles Hozurry steps up to my side. "Just got word," he murmurs quietly to Weeve and I. "We're running a bit behind."

"_What_?" my friend hisses, glaring at him. "Why?"

"Don't look at me. Laecie's not ready yet."

Weeve curses. "Remind me again, why the hell did we put a twelve-year-old in charge of starting this thing?"

"The youngest kids are at the front of the crowd," I whisper back. "It's the only way everyone can see the signal. Laecie will come through for us, don't worry." The little girl is always following me around, eager to participate in whatever rebellious plans we can come up with. Not only that, but she's mature for her age and highly competent. She'll make it work.

Although she is cutting it pretty close. Azura seems to be wrapping up her speech, her heels clicking along the surface of the hastily constructed stage as she makes for the large, glass bowl nearest her. "I suppose we'll do boys first, if that's all right," she says, looking out over the crowd as though expecting us to nod enthusiastically. No one does.

"So you're still going through with this?" The whisper catches me off-guard. I turn away from Azura's dramatic show of rifling her hand around the pile of papers and face my other best friend, Polly Essetter. She's been quiet today, even more than usual, all thanks to the events of this morning. We'd been part of the enormous crowd that had gathered outside the train station by ten o'clock, when the Capitol had said they would finally be returning our captured soldiers. Polly's brother had been a part of Squad 8-11, the team that was taken a few months before the war. He was her only possibility of having a family member still living.

Yet the train pulled in and the Peacekeepers piled out, escorting exactly one scrawny, trembling boy between them. One is all we got back. One is all that lived.

That's why we have to do this, today. The Capitol thinks they can appease us by giving back one out of the thousands of citizens we lost, thinks they can calm us by treating these "Hunger Games" as a celebration rather than a punishment, thinks they can placate us by throwing things like a "free brunch" before the ceremony today. We have to show them we will not bow. It's what my hero Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer would do. She's only eighteen, was sixteen at the start of the rebellion, and yet, by the end of the war, she was one of the rebel chiefs in District 6. Every other week, no matter how bad the war was going for us, we got word of the heroic efforts of Lara-Dorsa and her team; capturing a Capitol regiment, taking control of Panem's train line, hacking the hovercraft GPS systems to figure out where our enemies were. She's my idol.

"We have to stop this madness," comes my answer to Polly's question, and it's true—the Capitol can't keep acting like they own us, like we're nothing more than insignificant pawns for their games. "You can still join us, if you'd like."

Polly was never much of a fight, during or after the war. And especially now, with the depression of losing all hope that her brother might still be alive . . . "I'm okay, thanks," she whispers, even quieter than before. "But good luck."

Up onstage, Azura finally stops swirling the papers around and grabs a slip. Still, she tries to convince us this is all an exciting game by slapping her thighs as a makeshift drumroll. "District Eight, the courageous boy to represent you as your champion is . . ."

At first, I think she's pausing for dramatic effect. It takes me a moment to realise she looks surprised; I don't think of Capitol citizens as being able to feel true human emotions. But shocked she is. I watch her eyes dart from the paper to the crowd to the Head Peacekeeper, who's clearly waiting for her to get on with it.

Finally, after a long moment, she does. "Mack Ramaye!" she calls out, and, strangely enough, the cheerfulness in her voice has a much hollower quality to it now. "Come on up here, you lucky boy."

I almost think I hear her voice falter towards the end of her sentence, but I barely register it, too distracted by what happens next.

As two stern-faced Peacekeepers escort the pale, trembling seventeen-year-old up to the stage, something flies up from the twelve-year-old section. The rubber ball seems to hang, suspended in the air, before falling back down, just as another rises up to take its place.

"_Finally_," Weeve mutters under her breath and puts the mask in her hand on.

All at once, the tension-ridden square fills with chaos. Popping out of the crowd are tumblers, acrobats, gymnasts, any rebel we could find who can do so much as a cartwheel. Others, like Laecie, are juggling, or else have pulled plates and sticks out of hidden pockets and begun to spin them above the heads of others. Many people, like Weeve, are wearing masks we quickly attempted to draw clown faces on; they go through the rows of people performing small bits of slapstick comedy, much to the general populace's surprise. Even the Peacekeepers seem rooted to the spot, unsure exactly what to do. Shock won't keep them paralysed for long, though.

At my back, two enormous, muscular eighteen-year-olds appear: Tul and Terry, two twins in our rebel cause.

"Ready, boss?" Tul is so tall, he has to lean down just to talk to me.

I nod, jamming an old top hat onto my head. It was a lucky find we made in an old alley a while back, and I knew it would come in handy eventually—adds to the part.

"Good luck," Polly whispers again.

The two boys bend down, each placing one giant hand beneath my feet while the other wraps around my leg. In this manner, they hoist me up until I'm high above the heads of every citizen in the crowd. Immediately, all eyes go to me.

"People of Eight!" I shout, hoping my Capitol accent isn't too off. "I give you your circus! I hope you enjoy it, especially after all the free food you just received."

Many people look down at their hands, still clenched tightly around napkins or paper plates; remnants of the free brunch from this morning are scattered throughout the square.

"Bread and circuses, people, bread and circuses!" From somewhere in the crowd, I can hear Weeve shouting the saying her father always used to tell her, the one that inspired our latest protest.

"Yes, bread and circuses!" I shout for everyone to hear. "May they keep you sufficiently satisfied and contently distracted from larger concerns!"

The Peacekeepers have finally clued in that this isn't just some random act of chaos, but a protest. I can see them storming into the crowd, batons drawn, grabbing for any participants they can reach. We all knew this would happen; everyone who signed up realised the risks. I just have to make my point before I'm taken down too.

"Forget about how the Capitol represses you!" I cry out, all too aware of five burly Peacekeepers making their way towards the twins and I. "Forget about how they abuse you, beat you, terrorise you! Forget about how they sent you spiralling into poverty by destroying the district! Forget about how they murdered your friends, your family! After all, they're giving you bread and circuses to keep your minds off of those memories! Bread and circuses, the Capitol's great diversion! Bread and—"

A loud _crack_ sounds beside me, coinciding with a shout of pain from Terry. The support on my left side vanishes and suddenly I'm falling through the air, sprawling onto the pavement below. My nose plows into the ground and I grit my teeth as the pain comes, riding in on waves of red now dripping down my face. I raise an arm to wipe the blood away, but someone grabs me before I have the chance, dragging me away from the twins, who are both on the ground, at the mercy of the Peacekeepers' batons.

I struggle violently, pouring all my energy into wrenching my arms out of my captor's grip. His fingers start to slip and for a moment, I believe I'm actually going to get away before something comes down hard on the top of my head.

Everything goes black, my vision shifting so violently that it makes me nauseous. Still the blows are falling, pounding on my neck, my shoulders, anywhere they can reach, and all I can do is try to block out the pain of each new strike. For a while, the sounds of the madness disappear, everything vanishing except the next hit. It's all I can do to keep myself from blacking out.

When the blows finally stop and I become aware of my surroundings once again, the first thing I realise is I'm still held by a Peacekeeper, still in the square, standing at the front of a crowd of kids all in similar scenarios. They got us, my rebel teammates. But, it dawns on me as I try to mentally count them up, not all of us.

Perhaps the Peacekeeper holding me sees the spark of triumph in my eyes; he gives me a violent shake and growls, "Don't get too excited. We'll track down the rest of you."

As if on cue, another Peacekeeper appears from one of the square's side streets, dragging a semi-conscious Nyles along by the scruff of his neck. "Damn kid nearly ran me all the way out of town before I caught him," he grumbles, turning to face his boss, who's still up onstage with Azura. "Could have shot him and had this whole business done within seconds. Remind me why we weren't allowed to use guns?"

"Good question." The Head Peacekeeper, a brutal man named Ovidius, turns his steely glare on Azura. "Why _weren't _we allowed to use guns?"

"I don't think that's the message we want to be sending," she hisses at him. Then, louder, for the whole square to hear, "Besides, kids will be kids. It wasn't a protest, it was a childish prank."

I glare furiously at her, but as I look around the square, I realise she's right. The only people the Peacekeepers are apprehending are kids, our fellow rebel orphans Weeve and I got to help us in this endeavor. No one from the crowd of onlookers joined in. I try to meet someone's gaze, hoping to see my own rebellious passion reflected in their eyes. All I get are heads turning away, looks of shame, helplessness and defeat. The Capitol has truly beaten our people.

"Well, at least you don't need to waste time picking out a girl," Ovidius says, marching away from the escort and down the stage steps.

"What? Why?"

He stops in front of the crowd of children, directly in front of me. Our gazes lock, each as hate-filled as the other's. In that split second, I realise what he's going to do next.

"You've already got one."

_Stay strong, Zee. You can do this. _I stand as tall as I can, jutting out my chin to show that I won't be beaten. I'm not afraid of these people and their Games.

Ovidius watches me for a moment, scowl deepening. A malicious glint lights his eyes as he steps to the side and yanks someone else out of the crowd. "Her."

My heart drops to my stomach. Up front stands a bruised and sniffling Laecie, who's desperately trying to remain brave even as tears gather in her eyes. It's not until Ovidius starts dragging her towards the stage that she breaks down in sobs.

"Wait, wait!" No, this can't be happening, it wasn't supposed to go like this! I was leading the kids, that means I'm supposed to get the worst punishment! That responsibility I can accept, but they can't send Laecie to her death for something I did. "This wasn't her idea!"

Ovidius smirks back at me, relishing my despair. He throws Laecie up the last few steps of the stage, where she comes to a sprawling halt beside a shocked Azura Mariness. "There you are. Should be a nice addition to your Games. She'll be the youngest one there, I suppose. How long do you think she'll last?"

No, no, not Laecie—this is all my fault, why is this happening? When I heard the stories of Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer, she never got anyone hurt, she always risked only her own life, as any good leader should. I'm a failure, a monster who is going to get a little girl killed. _It wasn't supposed to be like this! What would Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer do? What would she . . .?_

"I volunteer!"

The words are out of my mouth before the thought consciously enters my head. All eyes turn on me, including Ovidius's deadly glare. "What?" he spits.

"I volunteer," I say again, less frantic than before. "I can do that, can't I?"

He glowers at me before turning to Azura, who slowly nods her head. "Yes, yes you can." When she catches sight of the Head Peacekeeper's rage, she shrugs. "What? I didn't make the rules. Of course, if the reaped tribute doesn't want her spot to be taken—"

"I do!" Laecie shrieks. "I do, I do!"

She squirms out of the Head Peacekeeper's grasp and runs, sobbing, into my arms. "I'm sorry, Zibeline," she manages to choke out between whimpers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just can't die, I'm too scared, I—"

"Shh," I whisper, stroking her hair with my free hand. "It's all right. I'll be fine."

Another sob wracks her tiny body, but I'm denied any more time comforting her; the Peacekeeper holding my arm yanks me away, shoving me up the steps to the stage. I stumble once, nearly falling, but regain my balance and manage to walk somewhat confidently the rest of the way.

"So, ah . . ." Azura claps her hands, trying to restore her earlier cheeriness. "Well, that was certainly exciting! Look at this brave girl, so eager to be in the Games that she's volunteering!"

"That's not why I'm—" My protest ends sharply as a gloved hand clamps roughly over my mouth. I don't need to look behind me to know Ovidius is standing there.

Azura stares at us for a moment before quickly recovering. "Right, yes. Anywho, ah, your name! What is it, my dear?"

A murderous whisper creeps into my ear. "Say anything else and I'll beat you within an inch of your life. Then I'll move on to the little one."

I wish I could send my glare his way—heck, I wish I could turn around and punch him in his ugly face. But I'm all too aware of how serious his threats are, so all I wind up doing is muttering a clipped, "Zibeline Tassle" under my breath.

"There you have it, District Eight! Your champion and tribute for the girls, Zibeline Tassle!"

An audible cry rises up from the crowd of kids that weren't involved in the protest, and I look towards the source, only to find Polly staring back at me. Tear tracks stain her pale cheeks, pain and sorrow weighing on her brow in such a way that makes my heart hurt, but I force myself to remain stoic. I'd never forgive myself if I broke down in front of Ovidius.

_She'll be fine_, I think, trying to tell her as much with a glance. _She still has Weeve . . . Weeve!_

My eyes dart to the crowd of captured rebels, searching for my friend's familiar face. It's nowhere to be found.

_She got away. She made it._

At least this didn't all end in disaster. Weeve is full of fiery passion and rebelliousness, Polly more sensible and logical; if they're both out there, they can keep up my work in case I don't return. Try as I might, I don't know how I'm going to get out of this.

* * *

><p><strong>LARA-DORSA TUPPENHEIMER, 18, DISTRICT 6<strong>

Oh, dear Panem, just shoot me now. Please. Anything would be better than this torture.

I roll my eyes and let my head loll to the side, trying to express how absolutely _bored_ I am. None of the cameras are pointed my way, but hopefully one will pan over soon and show everyone watching how unafraid and generally disinterested I am.

The Capitolite man continues to rant from the podium above my cage, going on about "the districts this" and "the Capitol that". Honestly, everyone just lived through the war; we really don't need a recap. I wish I could see him, make a face and try and throw him off or something, but I'm stuck in the strangest (and most ridiculous) Capitol contraption I've ever seen. It's a vehicle of some sort, with two solid steel cages on wheels making up the base—where I currently am chained up—on top of which is a platform that I believe is meant to look like a giant boot. Supposedly it's "symbolic", but I think it looks more like some crazy masochist decided to try and design a parade float.

Which this thing is, really. I mean, that's what they used to parade me around the district before the reaping ceremony began. _"Look," _the Capitolite guy had said. "_Look how even the 'strongest' among you have been quashed by the boot of the Capitol." _

I guess this is why they kept me alive for so long after the war, even after they executed all of 6's other rebel leaders; they want to break me in their new Hunger Games. Well, the joke's on them because I'm not scared; hell, I'm _excited_. I've spent the past six months in a prison cell waiting for something to do.

Besides, did the president even consider how stupid he was being? Throw me in an arena with twenty-three other district kids and tell us to kill each other off? _Please_. You can bet most, if not all (barring those backstabbing Twovians, of course) will have been on the rebels' side during the war. Therefore, they'll all know who I am and will have no qualms about following me. With them as my army, we'll destroy anyone pro-Capitol and then proceed to protest, showing how we will not bend to the Capitol's insane rules. With any luck, our defiance will spark rebellion within the districts, and hey, before you know it, we might overthrow the Capitol this time around. See, _this _is why people follow me.

Although, admittedly, nobody was jumping to serve me earlier today. As the bizarre shoe car drove down roads lined with Sixers, I peered out from between the bars of my cage, waiting for the screams of defiance, the insults to the Capitol, the acts of violence people would commit in order to free me. But everyone looked so . . . _weak_. As if all of the life had been sucked out of them. Even when our Head Peacekeeper recognised a teenage boy in the crowd who had once been a rebel, no one fought the Peacekeepers who grabbed him and dragged him into the other cage to serve as the second tribute. Everyone just looked on listlessly. Where did their defiance go? Where is their loyalty to me?

Perhaps it's because the Peacekeepers gagged me; without my rousing speeches, my people are lost. If I could talk, I'd have them rioting in seconds, believe me.

"And now for the rules of the Hunger Games . . ."

Really? _Really? _I wish I could groan out loud. We all saw the announcement a month ago when Orion Hausler explained his demented idea for the Hunger Games, no one needs to be reminded. And yet here goes our self-proclaimed "escort" rambling on about them again! No, I don't need to hear about the reaping procedure, nor do I need to know 6 has had its privilege of a random draw revoked. Just skip to the part where you send me and my partner off to our doom.

Speaking of my partner, I wonder what he thinks of all this. The chains binding me to the floor of my cage limit my movement, but I'm able to crane my next enough to glance his way. I recognise him, vaguely. Mitt, I think his name was. Of course, he wasn't the Capitol's first choice for our male tribute. No, they wanted Abyess Exxe's son, Fender, to prove the ultimate point to the rebels. But no one's seen him for almost three years, even though the Peacekeepers have been searching relentlessly since the war ended. Not that they'll ever find him, which is why this random seventeen-year-old from the outskirts of the district had to take his place. Obviously not ideal, but I remember Mitt being a skilled fighter who was passionately invested in the rebellion. It was good enough for the Peacekeepers, I suppose.

You wouldn't know him as a diehard rebel now though, looking at him. Like all Sixers, Mitt's eyes are dull and downcast, his frame gaunt and frail, his skin marred by countless scars. It makes me wonder, what exactly the Peacekeepers did to these people that even I can't inspire them. It's making me anxious; where did their loyalty go? Everyone loved me during the rebellion—why aren't they showing it?

The escort's speech is abruptly interrupted by a loud car horn blaring from down one of the square's side streets. Immediately, I become rigid, alert—yes, yes, this must be it!

The reapings are being done with the absence of a crowd on purpose; the Peacekeepers were worried putting too many Sixers in the same place would result in a riot, so they're filming this in the empty square and broadcasting it all throughout the district. But now there's a car zooming into the space and skidding to a halt. Surely this is a rebel demonstration to free me! Surely my people are here for their courageous leader!

Wait . . . that's no rebel car—it's an armoured Peacekeeper van. As one, all cameras swivel towards it, even as the escort calls out angrily, "Don't look at it, look at me, you dolts! I'm not finished! Ugh, what is the meaning of this distraction?"

A group of five Peacekeepers burst out of the van's back, cheering loudly. Two of them are holding the arms of a small, thin figure in grimy clothing. I think it's a boy, but I can't be sure—a large bag is over their head, masking any distinguishable features.

"We got him!" one of the Peacekeepers shouts. "We got him!"

"_Ahem_!" I can't see the escort somewhere on his platform above me, but I know he's glowering at the Peacekeepers. "You are interrupting an official reaping and your antics are being broadcast to all of Panem! I will be having a word with my superiors about this, and if you don't have an incrediblygood reason for this disturbance then I can assure you, you'll all be—"

"Oh, relax!" one Peacekeeper calls out, a large grin present on her face. Before the escort can retort, she yanks the bag off of their prisoner's head and continues, "This a good enough reason for you?"

I may never have seen him before in my life, but there's no mistaking those light, wide-set eyes, those thin lips and rounded nose. Fender Exxe is the spitting image of his mother.

Well, _that _was unexpected.

As two of the Peacekeepers begin dragging the terrified twelve-year-old towards the cages, more run ahead to prepare his place; Mitt is taking up the space, after all. I glance over at the teen, not expecting to find much of a change in his expression besides perhaps a hint of relief, but I'm surprised with a look of absolute fury.

"No!" he barks as the Peacekeepers begin to unlock his cage—he's so lucky they didn't gag him too. "No, there's no way he's taking my place."

"You don't really have a say in that, kid," one of them says, striding inside and beginning to fiddle with the chains binding Mitt to the floor.

"No!" Mitt says furiously again. "No, I accept my position as a tribute!"

"You're not a tribute anymore. He is. Now move it." Finished with the chains, the Peacekeepers take Mitt by the arms and try to drag him out of the cage, but they're met with a lot more resistance than they prepared for.

"Then I volunteer!" Mitt squirms and struggles to escape their grasp, his flailing legs nearly kicking a Peacekeeper's head in. "I'll volunteer for him!"

"District Six has had its volunteering privileges revoked," comes the escort's obnoxious voice from up above. I can hear the smug smirk in his tone. "So it appears our new tributes will be Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer and Fender Exxe."

"NO!"

Mitt wrenches one arm free and swings it into the Peacekeeper's unprotected face. They go down with a cry, blood spurting from their nose. The second has no time to react before Mitt sweeps his legs behind their knees, sending them straight to the ground. Other Peacekeepers rush to the scene, but Mitt's managed to wrest one of the fallen men's guns from their belt and is open-firing on the officers before him. "Long live the districts!" he shouts, and _bam! bam! _Another man in white falls. "Long live the Abyess Exxe's son! The rebellion will live again!"

Yes, yes! See, _this _is what I was expecting my presence would spur. I'll admit, I'm a tad disappointed that a scrawny twelve-year-old has summoned more loyalty than me, but that's okay, I can use that. Fender seems scared, innocent, uncertain as to how to use people's devotion. I can take him under my wing, teach him my ways, get him to adhere to my example. If others follow him and he follows me, well then, they're all following me again, aren't they?

My eyes dart around the scene of death and chaos, landing on Fender, Mitt, each individual Peacekeeper and for a moment, I forget about my gag, trying to add my cheers to Mitt's cries. _YES! YES! _Panem thought it was done with war, but, oh boy, it's only just begun! Welcome to the rebellion part two, my friends. Long live the districts!


	5. No Good in Goodbye

_**And here we are - last reaping chapter! Whoo! That definitely went a lot faster than I'd originally planned :)**_

_**Another warning for this chapter, it deals with some heavier subject. Not violence, but some of the subject matter is mature (in the first 2 POVs, specifically). If you feel this means the story should be rated M, please let me know. I'm still unsure as to how much is too much before a story isn't considered T anymore.**_

_**Anyways, enjoy the last 6 tributes!**_

* * *

><p><strong>ELEGANCE LAMOORE, 17, DISTRICT 1<strong>

"What the fuck is this?"

Balthar winces by the door. "Foul language like that really shouldn't come from such a pretty mouth."

"Can it, asshole." I am _not _in the mood.

He looks genuinely wounded, like my words have speared him in the heart; aw, poor baby, did I hurt his feelings? "Hey, what's with the name-calling?"

"Hah. Funny, that's my question too." I jab my finger towards the window, where 1's pristine square can be seen between the silk curtains. Balthar's underlings are still present, taking down the stage erected for this afternoon's ceremony. "What the _fuck _was with that woman calling my name?"

"Well, she said the rules of the reaping were—"

"Do _not _give me a fucking lecture on the 'rules'. I'm asking you why I was picked."

The fool looks at me with such a _confused_ expression on his face, as though I'm actually breaking his brain right now. "What do you mean, why? It's random."

"Bullshit." The Capitolites can repeat those words all they want; I'm smart enough to know these 'Hunger Games' are for getting rid of rebels.

Balthar's still staring at me like I'm the biggest mystery in the universe, and his sheer stupidity draws a cruel laugh from me. "What, you really _believed _the president when he said that?"

The man may be a complete dunce, but even he's not dense enough to miss the condescension in my tone. "I don't like the way you're talking to me," he says, shuffling from foot to foot with that damn wounded look still in his eyes.

Dear Panem—ladies and gentlemen, I present to you District 1's Head Peacekeeper. Yes, you heard me right: _Head _Peacekeeper, this spindly, young wimp of a man who I had wrapped around my finger in the first two seconds I met him.

"Well, I'm _sorry_," I snap back, withholding enough venom from the apology for the sarcasm to fly over his head. "But I don't like the way you're letting this happen. I thought you _loved _me." At least, so he tells me every day. The sappiness of his heartfelt declarations has long irritated me, and it feels good to throw his words back in his face now.

"I do!" he protests, taking a step forward and reaching a hand out. The glare I send his way instantly ceases any further attempts at showing affection. "I can't do anything about this though! I've got no authority with Capitol business."

"Yeah, right. You could have at least put in a good word for it _not _to be me. Or you could have mentioned an _actual _rebel for them to take—you know, someone who has actually . . ."

Killed Capitolites—that's how I was going to finish. Suddenly, the reason for all this hits me. "Holy shit. You fucking told him, didn't you?"

"What?"

"Our new Capitol-appointed mayor," I snap. "What did you tell him about me?"

"What? Nothing! I mean," he adds as my glare intensifies, "Only the important things. Like how you've been helping us kill off rebel suspects."

"And did you happen to mention _why _this is my area of expertise?"

"What, like the fact that you own a winery and are good with poisons? Sure. What's the problem with that?"

Balthar's stupidity never ceases to amaze—and infuriate—me. "Did you tell him _why _I've gotten so good at doing your job for you?"

"I wouldn't say you do my job _for _me—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Did you tell him I poisoned Capitolites back when they invaded and occupied One during the war?"

He shrugs. "Yeah."

So there it is. One idiotic, loud-mouthed buffoon is the reason I'm being sent off to my death.

I shove Balthar away from me and point furiously at the door. "Out. Now."

"What?" he sputters. "Why? We've got an hour, I thought you might want to—"

"What? Fuck?" I sneer at his shocked expression. I've never broken my façade of the refined, eloquent orphan of two renowned wine-makers before, but at this point, I've had it. Besides, I don't need Balthar to love me anymore; that ruse was only ever a means to an end and now look where it's gotten me. Lying to him serves no further purpose. "I'm sorry, I'm not really feeling up to it right now. But maybe if you head home, your wife will be willing."

_There's_ his breaking point. He doesn't like it when his 'extra-marital partners' mention the wife. "You know what, you're being really rude," he says, stepping back. "And I don't think I want to be here anymore."

"Look at all the fucks I give." I waggle my fingers in a sarcastic wave. "Say hi to your wife for me. Or maybe I will—on national television."

His eyes narrow, but not before I catch the glimmer of worry within. "Go to hell."

"Race you there."

He throws one last grimace my way and strides out of the room, making sure to slam the door shut like a toddler in a temper tantrum. I continue to glare at the oaken panels, wishing there was some way for my gaze to cause him physical pain. Normally, I'd be happy with myself in a situation like this; after all, I did have the last word in our little spat. Knowing this, however, isn't exactly a comfort. The race to hell is all too real, and I'm afraid I've already got a big head start.

* * *

><p><strong>PEECY SIBER, 13, DISTRICT 3<strong>

I was starting to worry she wouldn't come; my aunt hasn't exactly been in the best shape as of late. It was getting to the point where I was considering asking the Peacekeeper guarding my door if they could go find her and bring her too me—I mean, our law enforcement scares me to death, but I was that desperate.

Thank goodness my door opens before I rise, and in stumbles Aunt Ampeere. A cloud of alcohol fumes hangs about her, but it's not as strong as it usually is by this time of day. Good—maybe I'll actually be able to talk some sense into her.

I can't find anything to say though, not with the horrors of my situation crushing my voice. So I wait for her to say something. Maybe words of comfort will calm me enough to talk.

"They, uh . . ." Aunt Ampeere looks around, lost. "They said family was s'posed to be here. So, um, here I am."

I stare at her, shocked even though I shouldn't be by now. It's hard to believe this is the same intelligent, beautiful woman who used to help me with my homework when even my parents struggled with the explanations. "You don't know why you're here, do you?"

She shrugs helplessly. I can't believe this.

"I'm going to die, Aunty!" The shout is out of my mouth before I can restrain it. My choked-up-ness disappears immediately, replaced by a raging tumult of sadness, fear and anger. "They picked me to go into the Hunger Games! You know, that thing they're doing where kids have to _kill _kids? That's me! I'm going to die!"

All I get is an uncomprehending stare in return as Aunty's alcohol-addled brain tries to piece together my words. "But . . . why?"

Why? _Why_? I have no idea. When they reaped the boy first, everything made sense in my mind; of course it was Mikael Rasauf, the tech guy for Districts on Alert. This Hunger Games, it's to get rid of rebels and potential threats, which Mikael could still very well be. Obviously they wanted him out of the district.

But me? I'm nobody. Sure, my parents fought in the war, but so did the parents of thousands of other kids! The universe just hates me, I think that's the takeaway from all of this. It stole my parents, it ruined Aunty, it gave me a colossal burden and now this. Yeah, thank you, world. This is just what I needed right now.

I force myself to calm down and take a breath, not wanting to yell at Aunty. Well, actually, I _do _want to yell at her, a lot, but I don't have the time. The Capitol escort said we had an hour to say goodbye and I have a feeling I'll need all of that to talk some sense into my drunk aunt.

"Aunty, listen," I begin, walking over to her and taking her hand in mine. She flinches as our fingers touch—Aunty doesn't like personal contact anymore—but she reluctantly allows me to take her over to the couch and sit her down. "We have to talk, okay? About something really serious. Which means you need to listen really well."

"I'm listening." Surprisingly enough, for the first time in a year and a half, she actually seems to mean it.

It throws me off, partly because I figured I'd need to spend more time building up to my speech. Now that it's time to bring up the subject, I'm at a complete loss as to approach it. Any way I look at it, our conversation is probably going to end in tears. I just have to manage to get through to her, somehow.

I take a deep breath, racking my brain for a way to broach the topic gently. My inner Threek nature is rooted too deep within me though, and all I end up stating is the blunt truth. "Chip and Ram are alive."

It takes me a moment to remember why she's not sobbing and shouting already, just giving me a confused stare. I sometimes forget she didn't even keep them around long enough to name my cousins; that was a job I had to do.

"Your sons," I continue, preparing myself for the onslaught I know is to come. "They're still alive and around. I've been keeping them in the apartment basement."

I can see all of Aunty's muscles tauten, her puzzled expression drop immediately. I was expecting a drunken rage, like I've seen often on the streets of our district, but Aunty's fury is cold and deadly quiet. "I thought I told you to get rid of them."

"What was I supposed to do?!" I didn't mean to be so loud, but my voice is changing pitch and level of its own accord. "There aren't any more orphanages, no one wants to deal with the crazy amount of orphans running around! Was I supposed to just leave them on the street to die? How could I, they're my _cousins_, your _sons_—"

With surprising speed, Aunty's hand shoots out and grabs the collar of my dress. "Don't say that," she hisses, so unlike the cheery aunt I used to know and the useless drunk I've come to expect. "Don't _ever_ say that. They are _not_ a part of our family."

Tears are welling up in the corners of my eyes despite myself; I knew this would be hard, but why, why does she have to be so _cold_? "They're nine months old," I whisper. "They're just babies, Aunty. Whatever evil brought them into this world, it's not their faults."

I thought I might finally get through to her with that line. Instead, her eyes glaze over and her lips tremble as her face morphs into that far-away expression she gets whenever she remembers that week.

No one likes to think about it much: that bleak time when, during the war, the Capitol managed to invade and take over part of 9 and almost all of 3. We pushed them back, of course, and eventually forced them out of the district, but it wasn't soon enough to undo the horrors their soldiers had committed. Hundreds killed, thousands beaten. And those like Aunty who suffered a whole different kind of torture.

Without warning, my aunt releases her grip on my collar and rises from the couch. I flinch, expecting a fit of anger and yelling, maybe even a slap or two, but all she does is walk determinedly towards the door.

"Aunty? No, no, Aunty, wait!" I scramble up from the couch, but she's already out into the hall and closing the door behind her. "Aunty, they need you!"

The door slams shut without another word from my aunt. In one minute, she has managed to end four people's lives. Hers, because now she's forever crossed the line that will make her sad and alone until the end of her days. Chip and Ram are done for too, if she won't help them; I almost single-handedly cared for them for nine months, with only some help from Old Pae, the elderly woman who lives in the apartment across from ours. She could never care for the boys herself though, not with her age and gout.

Finally, Aunty has ended my life as well. In my failure to convince her to help her sons, I've doomed them to die, and that is guilt I will carry every day from now on. Maybe I should have left them on the street all those months ago and hoped some kind person might find and take them in. But I could never risk leaving children to die.

And now I'm heading to a place where I'll have to not only leave children, but actively have a hand in their deaths if I want to keep myself alive. Am I cursed? Have I offended the universe in some way? I just want to be safe; I just want to have a normal family again. I just want my parents back.

* * *

><p><strong>CAIDI IYAUN, 13, DISTRICT 5<strong>

"Caidi, honey, talk to me, please."

My father runs a hand through his thinning hair, the other drumming nervously on his knee. His eyes are wide and desperate, with so much hurt in them, I nearly break my vow of silence. But then how could I possibly respect myself if I don't stand up for my own ideals?

"Caidi, please. This might be the . . . the l-last time we speak again."

No matter how much I value my beliefs, I can't deny this has kind of thrown a wrench into things. With a sigh, I pull my knees up tighter to my chest and murmur, "You really think they'll go through with this, then?"

For a moment, my father's face lights up with one of the happiest smiles I've seen since Mom died. These are my first words to him in over six months, after all.

The expression quickly disappears though, replaced by one filled with fear and anger. "I don't know. I thought they would, considering they seem so adamant about trying to get rid of potential threats." He slams his fist down on the end table beside him, startling me; my small, slim father is not one for angry outbursts and violent reactions. "_Damn it_! This thing should only be for prominent rebels or their kids! Why are they doing this to me, to you? After all I've done for them, I thought you'd be safe!"

"Though those that are betrayed do feel the treason sharply," I whisper, not entirely sure why this quote has come to mind now. My father pauses as I speak, and surely he must recognise my words—he and I always used to read old literature together—but I finish it all the same. "Yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe."

A beat of silence follows, during which Dad pushes his glasses back up his sweaty nose. "I take it you're not just referring to the Capitol when you say 'traitor'."

I don't answer, even though I'd like to, even though a part of me wants to ignore what he's done and be a happy family again. For some reason, my mind won't let me forgive him.

"Caidi, what was I supposed to do?" He puts his head in his hands and I admit, it breaks my heart to see his shoulders shaking. "They would have killed us all otherwise! And you, and everyone else's families! What was I supposed to do?" He's staring at me again now, so haunted and lost that I think he's actually seriously looking to me for an answer. "What was I supposed to do?"

I look down at my fidgeting hands. Another quote comes to mind. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."

"Please, please stop talking to me in other people's words. I want to hear your own."

"But that's just it, Dad." I meet his eyes, feeling equally rootless, as though we're two lonely rafts drifting aimlessly across an endless sea. "You always told me to learn the words of great men until I was smart enough to come with my own." I shrug helplessly. "But I'm not smart enough. I'm thirteen. All I know is what I feel, and what I feel is . . ."

"That I'm a traitor," he finishes quietly. "And a coward."

I want to tell him no, he's not, but something is holding me back. Maybe it's the image of a bombed and ruined 13 that flashes before my eyes every time I look at my father.

They were one of the frontrunners of the war, along with 6 and, to a lesser degree, 8 and 3. The sheer size of their population, coupled with the district's strategic position away from the Capitol and the fighting, led to them being one of the largest threats during the Dark Days, which is why the Capitol wanted to off them as soon as they could. It took them a year to realise they didn't have the manpower to launch an assault on the well-protected 13 though, and another six months to find another option for attacking when their forces breached our district's walls.

The soldiers didn't get far, but it was enough; my father and I live in Newtown, a small community much too close to the slim part of land where the Capitol and 5 touch. Capitolites broke in, terrorised our town and took over the Newtown Power Plant, where my father happened to be working at the time. He, along with his co-workers, bartered for their lives in exchange for developing the technology that would later wipe out District 13 and bring the rest to their knees: nuclear weapons.

What am I supposed to say to him now? I loved my mother, but I always had a special connection with Dad, especially after Mom died in the war. He was one of few adults who didn't go off to fight, and I watched him bear the brunt of the insults thrown his way by the remaining population, awed at his ability to brush off the verbal attacks. My father could never kill others; that's always why I thought he stayed out of the war, and I was proud of him for it. That day he made the bomb, though, I realised he was only trying to save himself.

Perhaps I shouldn't think of him as so selfish—it's more likely he just was trying to save me. But I don't want to think about it like that, to think 800 000 lives were wiped out solely so I might continue to exist. If I face that fact, it means I have to do some incredible with my life, something so utterly amazing and beneficial to everyone that 800 000 people did not die in vain. That's a lot of pressure for a thirteen-year-old.

Maybe I'm the one who's selfish, for not wanting to face the truth.

My father makes no further attempts to speak, and for the rest of the hour, we sit in silence, both contemplating our past and future actions.

When the Peacekeepers do come, though, something snaps inside Dad and he lunges forward, sweeping me up into a hug. "Please be all right," he whispers, squeezing me tight. "Please, please stay safe. I can't lose you, Caidi, I can't."

The Peacekeepers pull him off and drag him away, leaving me in the exact same shell-shocked position on the couch. I didn't even return the hug.

* * *

><p><strong>ARBOR KRAWP, 14, DISTRICT 11<strong>

So.

This is . . . well . . .

Huh.

I still feel not entirely in control of my brain, even after being whisked away to a small tent outside the larger one, where apparently my "goodbyes" are supposed to take place. Honestly though, I'm trying not to think too much at all. What good will it do? Make me cry, most likely, and I _hate_ crying. After spending six months living in an orphanage where there is always, without fail, some kid whining every minute, I've forbidden myself from doing it. I just have to keep my thoughts positive, is all. Or, at the very least, off of the negative.

"So, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" I ask out loud. There's no one in the small tent with me, but I know a Peacekeeper is standing guard right outside, only separated from me by a thin flap of material. As far as our law enforcement goes, she seems like a decent person; at least, her look was somewhat sympathetic as she ushered me in here. "Um, excuse me? Hello?"

The flap draws back and the woman sticks her head in. "What's up?"

"I was just wondering what, ah, what this is. Right now. You know, all this." I gesture around to the tent, feeling a slight heat rise to my cheeks. During the actually ceremony, I was too busy comforting one of my buddies (who was in tears, of course. I figure it's kind of a default setting for orphans) to really pay attention to how everything plays out; our escort representative mentioned something about goodbyes, but that's all I know. Now this woman probably thinks I'm a dunce.

"It's the goodbyes. When your family gets to come and see you off." She screws up her face, as though regretting her earlier words. "Sorry. That was insensitive."

"What was?"

"Well, the bit about family. You're from that orphanage, aren't you? Most of the kids in our zone were."

Despite the shock and, yes, fear in my heart, I can feel determination and anger beginning to drown them out. "Yes, I live and work in the Malvalcea Orphanage," I say curtly. "What does that have to do with my family?"

The Peacekeeper gives me an odd look, so similar to the ones I receive every day by people just like her, and finally, I decide I just can't take it anymore. "I have parents!" I blurt out, much louder than I intended. "They're around somewhere. And they will be coming, you mark my words!"

The woman seems a bit shocked by my sudden outburst and, after a moment of pause, steps back outside the tent, leaving me alone to fume within. I mean, honestly! I volunteer my time and patience working at the orphanage and all I get in return are people lumping me in with that sad lot. I. Am. Not. One. Of. Them. My parents didn't die during the fighting; they ran before the mayor's conscription laws could affect them. 11 is a _big _district, with a lot of places to hide. They _are_ out there. They'll come for me.

Then it really hits me; they _will _come for me. It's been impossible to find anyone in our huge district after the war ended—why so many potentially just missing people have been declared dead—but now Mom and Dad know _exactly _where I am thanks to the live broadcast. Sure, it's not under the best circumstances, but they know where to go now! They'll come, we'll talk and laugh and cry, and they'll tell me I'll come back because they're parents and that's what they do. But they'll really believe it too. And so will I—I mean, there's no way the universe would finally get me, Mom and Dad back together again only to tear us apart forever. Whether these Games are a joke or—absolute worst case scenario—they're actually serious, I'll still come back; I have to, to see Mom and Dad again. But first, I'm going to see them right now.

I can't sit still on the uncomfortable, fold-out chair I've been given, and soon find myself pacing around the tent, waiting for their arrival. Odds are they weren't at the same checkpoint as me, so they'll have to make the trek out here. That's fine; I have an hour. Surely they can make it before then. Oh, I can't wait!

Any second now, they'll walk through that flap and my mother will sweep me up in one of her bone-crushing hugs.

Any second now they'll walk through that flap and my father will ruffle my hair like he always used to.

Any second now they'll walk through that flap and we'll finally be a family again.

* * *

><p>The Peacekeeper walks through the flap, tapping her watch with one hand. "Time's up. We've got to get you to the train station now." She looks at me, her expression twisting into a pitying frown. "Sorry."<p>

I'm back to sitting on my fold-out chair, staring at the two that are arranged around me. Chairs that were supposed to seat my parents when they came to see me off. Chairs that stayed empty for the entire hour.

* * *

><p><strong>ELANIE HOBBERT, 16, DISTRICT 9<strong>

Milo gives me a good fifty minutes with my siblings before he walks in. Thank goodness—at least the boy's not entirely a dunce.

I continue to wave at Inala, Laurette and Garric as they trot towards the door. "Be safe!" I call. "And be good!"

Milo closes the door behind them, smiling slightly. "A mother, right down to the very end."

"Well, what do you expect? They are my responsibility." I allow myself to relax back on the couch as Milo comes to take a seat. "Why are you here?"

He gives me that typical confused looks; for the smartest nerd in the district, he looks puzzled remarkably often. "What do you mean? It's a time for friends and family, that's what they said."

"Are we friends?" I'd never really considered the idea before. Milo and I have never done any 'friend' activities, and we didn't even meet over shared mutual interests or whatever. Our bond was struck out of necessity.

"_Hey, you. Yes, you. You're the tech nerd everyone talks about, yes?"_

"_Well, I hope that's not what people actually call me," he says, chuckling and throwing a lopsided grin my way. It fades as I continue to stare at him. "Wait, you're serious? People actually call me that? Aw man . . ."_

"_Yes. It's used repeatedly." I slide into a seat across from his. "Now I need your help."_

Milo laughs, perhaps remembering our first encounter as well. "What would you call us then, if not friends?"

"I don't know. Co-workers?"

"Pfft, please. What work do you do?"

I swat him in the arm. "Looking after three kids while you fiddle around with a bunch of dials. How's that?"

"Okay, okay." He raises his hands in defeat. "You win."

We sit in silence for a few moments. I know our time is very limited and I should be using every second I have, but I just can't think of anything to say that doesn't sound final. And I don't want this to be final. "So, do you still think you can get it to work?"

Milo hesitates before managing to twist his expression into one of smirking cockiness. "'Course I can. I'm the 'tech nerd', remember? By the time you get back, you can chat with 13 to your heart's content."

The sentiment is nice, but I know in my heart he's lying for my sake. Six long months have been wasted on Milo's attempts to pick up a radio frequency from my destroyed district. A part of me told myself to forget it, to be glad my parents moved out here to help in the war before they died—otherwise, I'd be a smoking ruin like the rest of my people. But I refuse to believe everything and everyone I ever knew is gone. There has to be someone still out there, and for the longest time I deluded myself into believing Milo might be able to contact them with his experimental radio.

Now, though, it looks like I'll never find out.

"You'll take care of the kids, right?" I say suddenly. "Inala, Laurette and Garric. You'll watch them?"

I can tell Milo is uncomfortable with the finality of my words and the meaning behind them, but he doesn't press the issue. "Of course. Everyone will. We all pitch in to help victims of the Capitol."

I snort at the thought of Niners actually giving a damn about my siblings. "I doubt that. Everyone hates us here."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" The Peacekeepers are coming into the room now, telling Milo his time is up, but I can't stop myself from launching into a rant I've held bottled up inside me for so long. "The number of times I've walked down the street and been insulted because I look healthier and more well-fed than Niners. The number of times people have glared at me, or refused to serve me at the market, I just, I can't count all the times! The people here may hate the Capitol, but they hate Thirteen more for sticking them in this mess. Sure, our lives weren't great before the Dark Days, but they were better than they are now! Thirteen screwed everyone over, I get that! But why take it out on me? I'm sixteen, I had nothing to do with any of the decisions being made by our leaders! Why do they shun my siblings?" I collapse back on the couch; I don't even remember standing up. "Why do they hate me?"

I look at Milo hopelessly, not really expecting an answer but longing for one at the same time. At first, I don't think he'll respond; he's got that uncertain look on his face again, like he's waging some great, mental battle. Then he leans forward and kisses me.

I blink, completely and utterly stunned by the sudden warmth and pressure on my lips. Vaguely, I'm aware of one of the Peacekeepers groaning, and before I know it, the kiss is broken as the officials start to pull Milo away.

"I was, uh, just going to say I don't hate you," he says, laughing nervously as they escort him out. "But it didn't seem like enough. Anyways, I'll take care of the kids, don't worry! And I'll get that radio working! Stay safe and please come back! I lo—"

The Peacekeepers shut the door forcefully behind them. Moments later, it's reopened by a dour-looking man in a uniform. "Your time's up. Train—now."

I don't actually know if I can stand. My legs feel like jelly and my stomach is twisting and twirling nauseatingly, like I might throw up butterflies at any moment. Heat is racing through my body too, pricking my cheeks uncomfortably and making my palms sweat. Yet perhaps the strangest thing of all is, despite the immense discomfort, the urge to smile has never been so overwhelming.

* * *

><p><strong>VITUS AQUILA, 16, DISTRICT 2<strong>

It takes a few minutes for my family to get here. District 2 is enormous, and even divided up like we were for the reapings, there was still a huge crowd in our section. They'll have to fight their way through the masses to get to Town Hall, where the goodbyes for our division are taking place.

To pass the time, I flip on the TV in the room. Most of the channels are playing recaps of our reapings, the most recent ones, but I still come across the odd Hunger Games promotional film. The Capitol has been airing loads since last month and, yes, this is my favourite!

"A heroic pair from 2," the narrator recounts in his dramatic voice, "devoted to serving their district and country, have volunteered to take part in this newest contest of honour. Not only do they seek the thrill of the game and the glory and riches they will receive when they win, but they also wish to further aid their allies, the Capitol, in making sure no one unworthy wins the coveted prize. After all, the war may be over, but the enemy is only lying in wait, my friends! Be careful, he could be anywhere. Like here!"

The camera cuts to District 6, where two hideous, ugly tributes sneer at the camera, waving the rebels' flag over their heads as they stand proudly atop a pile of dead Capitol soldiers. The music swells suddenly for that jump-scare effect, and I flinch like I do every time, but not to worry—the pair from 2 save everyone from these guys later on in the film.

"Vitus?"

I rise at the sound of my mother's voice, quickly shutting off the TV and hurrying to help my family into the room. Town Hall is filled with beautiful, lush carpets, which are great and pretty and all, but they've made it really hard for my dad to navigate in here.

"I've got it, son, I've got it," he says as I wheel him over to the semicircle of chairs around the couch. "Help your mother."

"I'm fine," she says, but she doesn't protest as I take Flint from her one good arm.

"Hey, mister," I say jokingly, sitting down on the couch with him in my lap. "Why aren't you walking, huh? Isn't five a little old to be carried?"

"Nuh-uh!" he says, poking me in the chest with his chubby fingers.

"Yeah, it is," Jade says, pulling up a chair and staring at Flint with a teasing smile. "By your age, I would never have dreamed of being carried places!"

"That's only because Mom and Dad were too busy caring for me instead," Felix says, chuckling and ducking as she swats at his head.

"Feint and hit him in the side, feint and hit him in the side!" Sabine shouts, coming to Jade's aid. "What have I been teaching you, honestly?"

"Guys, stop!" Kraig, ever the serious one, shuts everyone up with a shout. "Mom and Dad need to talk to Vitus."

"Thank you, dear," Mom says, patting my younger brother on the head as Sabine, Jade and Felix stop roughhousing. All eyes turn back to me, and a cold feeling seeps into my heart when I see the devastated look in my mother's eyes. I don't like this; my mother should never be that sad. "Oh, Vitus . . ."

"What's wrong?" I ask, bouncing Flint on my knee. His giggle seems so out of place when I'm faced with the desolate expressions of my parents.

"Vitus . . ." My father licks his lips, glancing towards my siblings, who are hanging onto his every word. "Do you know exactly what you've done?"

The question catches me off-guard. "Uh . . . yeah?"

"Vitus, these Hunger Games sound so _dangerous_." My mother's words come fast, as though she's trying to get them out before she starts yelling or crying. "Why on earth would you willingly go into them?"

I was afraid of this; this is why I didn't tell them what I was planning. Still, I'd been hoping for a happier reaction. "I just wanted to help the family."

"Honey, you were already _doing_ that."

"But it wasn't enough. Come on, Mom, you know it wasn't." I take a deep breath. "I've overheard your conversations with Dad. And I know you don't want to take Sabine out of school too, not when she's actually good in it."

"Darn right I am," my sister says, smiling proudly. She's only three years younger than me, but I don't think she's quite caught on to how bad our family's situation is, how close she came to being taken out of school to work in the mines alongside me. And after 2's education system had just gotten back on track after the war.

"So this way, she doesn't have to worry about that. Neither do you." I smile. "You won't have to worry about anything again, I promise."

"And when I'm worrying about my son as he fights for his life?"

"Mom, come on, you've seen all the films they've been playing. District 2 is _meant _to win." Which I guess technically means either myself or my district partner have an equal chance, but Aelia Cassionus doesn't seem like the typical Twovian, based on her horrified reaction to being given the honour of helping the Capitol stop any further threats to the nation's peace. "I'll be fine."

"He does have a point, dear," my father says, stretching as far as his wheelchair will allow him to pat my mother on the knee. "After all, we were on the Capitol's side, in the end. Why would they hurt their allies?"

"I should hope they don't. After all the help we've given them?" Mom rubs the stump where her right arm used to be and sighs. "Vitus, I just don't want you to throw your life away for us."

"I'll be fine, Mom, seriously. I fought in the rebellion towards the end, remember? Besides, better me than that little thirteen-year-old who got picked."

"True," Sabine chimes in. "That was Roland Stown, one of the kids in my math class. He's a _huge _wimp. Also, he sucks at math."

"There you go," I say, grinning. "See, everyone's winning."

My mother sighs, rises from her chair and comes to sit next to me. Putting her good arm around my shoulder, she squeezes me tight and murmurs, "My brave, brave son. What would we do without you?"

"Have the time of our lives?" Felix pipes up.

I laugh. "When did you decide to become a jokester, huh? Get over here."

He giggles and launches himself into our hug. Sabine and Jade follow close behind; after a long sigh, Kraig does the same.

"Hey," my father says good-naturedly. "Don't leave me out."

We all laugh and migrate back over to him. I put Flint on his lap and kneel, wrapping my arms around them both while everyone else encircles us from above. We stay like that for pretty much the entire rest of the hour, which is great. I love my family, and yeah, I'll miss them a whole lot when they're gone. But hey, at least it's only for what, two, three weeks? No longer than a month, surely.

It's all worth it, anyways. As the Capitol films put it, these Hunger Games are meant to be our saviour, our ticket to glory, honour and wealth. Glory I can do without and even honour doesn't hugely matter to me, but with the money they've put up as the prize, we'll never have to worry about our financial problems again. My parents can finally get the proper treatments they need for their war wounds and we can move into those fancy new houses they've build, renovate it so Dad can get around properly. Sabine and the rest of the kids can stay in school and I could even go back if I wanted to. I was a dunce with most subjects, but I always enjoyed history; I'd even entertained the idea of becoming a teacher. Of course, that dream was forgotten once Mom and Dad needed me to go to the mines, but now it might still happen. With the Hunger Games, anything seems possible.

* * *

><p><em><strong>And the reapings are officially done! Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this story so far, even with my constant changes. There's a poll on my profile now where you can pick your six favourite characters, just as a fun little thing to see who's popular. Also, I've got a few questions, if you have time to answer them:<strong>_

_**Did you like this reaping format? Did it give you enough info on the tributes without overwhelming you with detail?**_

_**Now that you've seen them all, what do you think of the tributes? Who's your favourite so far? Who do you hate?**_

_**Any predictions for the Capitol chapters? Any guesses on alliances?**_

_**Thank you very much guys!**_


	6. The True Enemy

_**Here it is, the first of the Capitol chapters! Tributes' POVs will start next chapter, but for now, I figured it'd be best to return to these guys and see what's going on "behind the scenes." Sorry if this chapter feels like a bit of a recap, but I thought it might be good to have before things start getting too crazy :)**_

_**Anyways, that's really all I have to say. Don't forget to check out the poll on my profile and happy reading!**_

* * *

><p><strong>ORION HAUSLER, PRESIDENT OF PANEM<strong>

"—could have _died_, do you know how terrifying it was? I mean—"

"—children are utterly insane, I can't possibly—"

"—problem with me? Because I think you have a problem with—"

"—crazy fucking districts!"

"All right, everyone calm down, please." I resist the urge to rub my temples; best not to show how aggravated I'm getting. "One at a time, remember, I can't listen to you all at once. Now, to start, I distinctly remember briefing you all on the potential dangers of your duties. Renwick, I'm sorry things went the way they did, but you signed up to escort Six, of all places. You should have expected it."

On one of the twelve screens surrounding me, the short man scowls. "A riot or two, I was expecting, Mr. President. What I was _not _expecting was a child with a gun shooting men down a mere twenty feet from my position. I was hoping your law enforcement would have done a better job of 'peace keeping' than _that_."

As much as I would love to argue with this pompous idiot, I know I have to be the bigger man—besides, I don't have the time. So, biting back my pride, I grit my teeth and respond, "I apologise for the way things got out of hand. I promise you, it won't happen again."

"But it still happened _once_. I demand a pay raise."

"_What_?" Drusilla spits out the cocktail she was slurping away at, little orange droplets flecking the surface of her webcam. "In that case, I deserve a fucking promotion! Did you not see the footage of Seven? We had everyone rioting, not just one damn kid."

"Four wasn't exactly heaven either."

"Neither was Twelve! All right, admittedly it wasn't a _big _riot, but for Twelve, it was huge."

"Yes, yes, I understand." Honestly, did these people not listen when they applied for this position? _Be prepared to witness acts of violence and retribution towards your person, including but not limited to: riots, demonstrations, insulting chants, excessive swearing, assaults, attacks and possible attempts on your life_—for goodness sake, I put that on the application form. "And rest assured, you will all be compensated. Yes, those of you who had difficulty with your tributes as well," I add hurriedly, before the escorts from 4, 5 and 11 can open their mouths to object. "I will be increasing all of your salaries."

"Well, I don't know if it's right to do it for _everyone_," Circie from 12 says.

"Excuse me?" Johannes from 2 glares into his webcam. "You wouldn't happen to be referring to someone in particular, would you?"

"Oh come on, you and Florine both know you had the easiest time. Your districts were perfect—you even had volunteers!"

"Blue had a volunteer too—I don't see you singling her out."

"Please, that was an _entirely _different circumstance."

"Yes, it was," I interject, staring intently at the eighth screen in the semicircle around me. My distant cousin's indifferent expression stares back.

"So you are mad at me. About what? The riot was relatively small, and I personally think it was handled rather well."

"That's not the part that bothers me. Azura—"

"Blue."

"_Azura_." I don't care if we are related; I'm not using her ridiculous nickname. "You called the volunteer 'brave'."

"So? She is."

Oh for—does no one understand the delicacy of our situation but me? "She was a rebel," I hiss, trying and not entirely succeeding in keeping my tone calm. "She had just openly defied the Capitol. You can't call someone like that brave!"

"Why not?"

"You're making her seem like a hero in the eyes of her district! What if they start looking up to her? What if they start following her lead?"

"Then you'll have more volunteers for your Games. I thought the point was to encourage people to participate."

I just . . . I don't even know how to argue with her anymore. My mind is too exhausted. "Look, I've got to head to a meeting," I say, hoping none of them will pick up on the blatant lie. "Call me if you have any serious issues, but otherwise, I'll see you all tomorrow. Thank you again for all that you've done."

Before any of them can say another word, I swiftly click the _End all calls _button on my own personal screen, and immediately, the faces around me disappear, monitors fading to black. _Thank goodness._ I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples furiously. Yes, perhaps it wasn't right to end the call so soon, but I just couldn't take any more of those people.

"Your cousin's right, you know."

I flinch in surprise and immediately curse myself; one would think after six months spent working with Yoriq Chentanko, I would have gotten used to his sudden appearances by now. "How did you get in?"

"This isn't the presidential manor, Mr. Hausler." The young man grins, leaning against the doorframe. "Remember, you're in _my _space."

His tone bothers me, as though I'm an intruder in his territory and completely at his mercy. Six months and this man apparently has yet to realise I'm the _president _of Panem. "What are you doing here?" I demand.

"I work here, remember?" Chentanko relaxes into a nearby rolling chair and pushes off the wall with his foot, sending himself zooming across the room to my side. He grins. "Your dear vice president should be returning from her check-ups on the arena soon. We're meeting in here to discuss."

"I won't keep you then." I've spent enough time in conferences with Daelianne and Chentanko to know all their technical talk will fly right over my head; besides, as much as I hate admitting it, I don't like to be alone in a room with the hacker. He unnerves me.

"Oh no, stay. I'm sure Dae won't mind." Chentanko chuckles, likely thinking of my vice president's reaction to his inappropriately familiar nickname. "Besides, don't you want to hear why your cousin is right?"

"Second cousin," I correct automatically, still sitting on the edge of my seat, preparing to leave. "And she wasn't."

"Well, perhaps not in some regards." Chentanko shrugs, absentmindedly fiddling with one of the dozens of electronic devices in his 'control centre'. "But she's right about treating the Games like a celebration, rather than a punishment."

"They _are_ a punishment."

"Yes, but they shouldn't be viewed as such. At least, by the districts. A man who is not aware of being pushed down will never have cause to stand up."

My expression remains unimpressed in the face of Chentanko's cocky grin. "Inspiring. You should write a book."

"Sarcasm ill-befits you, Mr. President—leave it to those of us who actually have the skill to wield it." Chentanko finishes his toying with the touch screen, and, with a sudden sweep of his finger, the holographic projector in the middle of the circular room lights up, showing a clear, 3D image of District 2's main square during the reapings. "Look at them. Do they look happy?"

They do, surrounded by their colourful banners, merchant booths and food vendors—there was even a band playing onstage, before the actual ceremony commenced. "Yes. What's your point?"

"Your impatience never ceases to amaze me. The point, Mr. President, is that these men and women have no cause to rebel. Why? Because they think they're lives are _excellent_. They're celebrating the fact that they're sending two children off to die."

"Only because of all the propaganda films we've been broadcasting to them. They think it's some great honour. Once their kids start actually dying, though, they won't be so happy."

"Well, obviously. It's going to be a shock, after all. I never said the Hunger Games would work immediately. It will take time, years, but this is the goal." Chentanko jabs his finger at the smiling faces of the Twovians. "To have people treat the Hunger Games as something incredible, exciting, _fun_."

As always when speaking with this man, I have the annoying feeling of being completely lost. "But . . . you told me on the day we met that I should 'crush the hope'."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean leaving soulless husks in your wake. Otherwise these people could never function properly as a society and Panem would crumble." Chentanko shakes his head, like I'm a slow student disappointing my teacher. The thought makes me grimace, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "No, you have to replace the hope with something much stronger, a desire so powerful it will blot out everything else . . ."

His dramatic pause quickly wears my nerves thin. "Which is . . .?" I ask irritably.

Chentanko smiles. "Greed, of course. Greed and petty competitiveness. Get them all forgetting this is their punishment, get them desiring that big prize at the end of the Games. The districts will be so busy backstabbing each other to try and win fame and fortune, they'll completely forget about their problems with us."

I frown as his idea rings through my head. As much as the man angers me, he does have quite the insight into society. Hmm, a future where the districts only squabble with each other, where they're so caught up in their individual greed that all hope of banding together and attacking the Capitol again vanishes . . . I'll admit, it is a nice ideal. "You really think that will happen?"

He answers with that same cocky grin, "Mr. President, you have my word."

My musings on the possibilities of his idea are quickly interrupted as the door to the control room slides open once more. "Oh, pardon me, sir," a rather frazzled-looking Daelianne says quickly. "I wasn't aware you were in a meeting."

"He's not," Chentanko replies just as I open my mouth to speak. "We're just passing the time, waiting for you."

Daelianne shoots him a glare; she's a stickler for protocol, and it aggravates her to no end when Chentanko acts like he holds all the authority—aggravates me too, come to think of it. "It's fine," I say as she turns her gaze back to me, waiting for the presidential reply. "Come on in."

"You look a bit . . . windswept, to say the least," Chentanko says wryly, eyeing all the runaway strands of blue that have blown out of Daelianne's usually neat bun. "How's the weather out by the arena?"

She scowls at him. "The same as it was last time we visited. Maybe even colder. The excavation site froze over and caused a few problems, but we got the bunkers in there eventually, and the metal plate systems. As long as they run them twice a day to keep them warm, they should work fine by the time the tributes use them."

"Excellent." Chentanko claps his hands and beams at Daelianne before glancing slyly at me. "Ah, but let's put that subject aside for now, shall we? Don't want to spoil too much for our dear president."

It was one of the decisions I was less happy about, at first. Chentanko insisted I be told only minimal details about his precious arena, so I'd be surprised along with the rest of Panem when it was finally revealed. At first I was suspicious, worried he might be keeping me in the dark for some nefarious purpose, but Daelianne also oversaw all of his plans, and her, at least, I have faith in. So I've allowed them to withhold information. All I know is the place has something to do with the slogan of that webside Chentanko is so obsessed with.

"So, what are we going to start with, then?" Daelianne asks, unbuttoning her coat as she deliberately chooses to sit at my side rather than Chentanko's.

"Why, the tributes, of course." Fires of eagerness light Chentanko's black eyes. "Did you manage to catch the recaps?"

"Sorry, I was a bit too concerned with making sure your nonsensical arena plans actually work." Daelianne scowls at Chentanko; six months of managing the Games business with him and it appears she hasn't warmed up to the hacker any more than I have.

Surprisingly, he makes no comment about her cheek. "Even better." Chentanko smiles widely and lays his fingers on the touchscreen. "We can introduce you to them ourselves."

He presses a button and the image of District 2's reapings disappears, replaced by a life-sized hologram of Glamour Sumptaious, information and statistics typed up neatly beside his hulking form. Call me old-fashioned, but technology like this has always unsettled me. There's just something eerie about creating such a perfect, personal replica of someone with a computer.

It bothers neither my vice president nor her co-worker, though. Both of them take the image in without batting an eye. "So Glamour made it, then." Daelianne nods. "Good."

Chentanko raises an eyebrow. "You sound like you doubted him."

"Maybe I did. He seemed like the type to back out at the last second." She gives Chentanko a withering glance. "I still don't see why you picked him, out of hundreds of better candidates."

The hacker isn't cowed by her glare. "Oh, I think he's something special," he says, smiling. "Just wait and see. Anyways, we know enough about him already. Boring. Let's move on."

He brushes the touchscreen again up pops a new image of someone shorter, slimmer and definitely female. She's dressed so immodestly, I feel the need to avert my eyes; Chentanko, however, only grins wider. "Elegance Lamoore. Pretty name, don't you think?"

"Rebel connections?" Daelianne asks, skipping to the point.

"Oh, none. Well, she did murder a number of Capitolites back when we were occupying One. Enticed them into her winery and promptly poisoned them. Wonder how she managed that."

"Probably with poison."

Chentanko eyes my vice president derisively. "You know that wasn't the part I was talking about."

"Let's move on," I say quickly. Whether it's the topic of conversation or the plunging neckline of the hologram's dress, I'm starting to feel uncomfortable.

I don't miss the hint of amusement in the look Chentanko throws my way, but he changes tributes all the same. "Ah, and here's our delightful surprise," he says as the tall, smiling Twovian boy appears. "Honestly didn't think the propaganda films were going to be that effective, but my talents exceed even my expectations sometimes."

"What's his story?" Daelianne asks, narrowing her eyes at the information written beside the boy.

"Vitus Aquila. Volunteered."

"No." She pauses. "Really?"

"Really. He's a big fan of our films. Also, I did a bit of digging to find other motivation. Not much interesting: parents injured in the war and can't work, wants to keep his siblings in school, support his family, blah, blah, blah. Dull, but very 'hero-esque. We can use that, it'll help make the Games seem more appealing."

"And his district partner? Was she the same?"

"Sadly, no." Another click of the button, another tribute popping up. "Aelia Cassionus. Last-minute recommendation to be picked—apparently a Peacekeeper thought she might be up to something potentially dangerous. Sadly not the case."

"_Sadly_?" I echo, clenching my fists once again. What kind of a twisted mind does this man have to think a non-threatening person should be considered sad?

"Well, yes. I mean, she's boring. Parents died when it was too young to affect her, she lived a normal, average life with her grandfather, never did anything remotely interesting. Utterly dull." Chentanko makes a disgusted face at the girl's hologram and swipes his finger against the screen. "Next."

It's times like this when I start to question my decision to enlist the help of a man like Chentanko, a man who so obviously gets his pleasure from watching others suffer. Is this really the kind of person I should be entrusting something as big as this project too? And always, there's that small, nagging doubt: _do I even want anything to do with his project at all?_

The thought immediately disappears though as the next tribute appears. This one, I knew well before the reapings took place. "Mikael Rasauf," I say, taking over the introduction for this one. "Worked the technical side of things for Districts on Alert."

"The radio show?" Daelianne's lip curls just at the thought; their rude and insensitive broadcasts about Capitol tragedies are still fresh in everyone's minds. "I thought the Peacekeepers took those boys out."

"Only the hosts. They made use of Rasauf's skills, and in the end, decided to let him live." I'm glad they did; that's one more rebel we can make an example of now.

"Too bad the girl isn't nearly as interesting," Chentanko says, allowing her hologram to pop up for only a moment. "Peecy Siber, some random kid. Didn't want to make it look like all of these were rigged, after all. Anyways, let's skip to Four, they're _much _better."

Them I remember as well: Hal Ibbit and Anne Emony, two children of rebels captured four months ago. I'm glad we found them too. Ibbit in particular was a member of a small rebel colony that had managed to flee Panem and make temporary camp on a large island out at sea, until they decided to return to free their fellow districtmen. Thanks to interrogation on the part of those we captured, we were able to find their base and arrest those who had stayed behind as well. No one can be allowed to escape the Capitol's rule; what kind of an example would that set?

Daelianne breathes in sharply as Chentanko switches from Anne Emony's profile to that of the District 5 boy. "Who is that?"

"Azimuth Kurindt." The hacker smiles, pressing a few buttons and zooming in on the boy's face. "I know, it's those eyes, right? Unsettling."

They are indeed. Even on a normal person, they're a disturbingly pale shade of grey, but there's something about them that looks so, so _feral_. Even with only a hologram, I can tell the boy's unhinged; that, and I recall his reapings from earlier today, where he started screaming profanities in the middle of the square, struggling to fight against the straitjacket he'd been placed in.

"He was in the siege of Duskendawn," Chentanko explains in answer to Daelianne's questioning look. "Trapped in that plant for nearly six months. I did some research, found some footage on the security cameras, and I think you'll find what went on during that time quite intriguing. Theft, abuse, beatings, assaults, murders, ca—"

"Yes, thank you. I'll read the full files at some other point," Daelianne says curtly. "Move on."

Chentanko's eyes are sparkling like he was just getting on a role, but surprisingly, he doesn't object, merely giving my vice president a knowing grin. "Sure. Whatever you'd like. The next one's quite tame. Caidi Iyaun," he says, bringing up the hologram of the young girl. "Her father was one of the scientists who worked on the tech that blew up Thirteen, but I'm not the one to tell you about her. Mr. President, wasn't she your _personal _recommendation? Why don't you fill your VP in?"

I glance at Daelianne, who understands immediately. The subject of 13's bombing is delicate, to say the least; only Daelianne and I, as well as a handful of people who orchestrated the supposed annihilation of the district, know the truth. My worry is that the scientists of 5, so well-versed in the art of nuclear warfare, might catch on at some point and realise all is not as it seems. Better to off as many of them and their legacies as we can, and quickly.

"No need," Daelianne says in a tone kept deliberately calm to avoid rousing suspicion from Chentanko, who miraculously, despite his advanced hacking skills, seems completely ignorant to the 13 situation. "I've already been briefed. Besides, there's not much to her, yes? Another boring one."

"Yes." Chentanko's eyes light up. "My dear Dae, I do believe you're finally learning to think like me. Treating the tributes as mere characters on a show, enjoying their suffering, even."

"Call me Dae one more time and I'll be enjoying your suffering."

"Duly noted." He chuckles and turns back to the holograms. "Where were we? Oh yes, the infamous District Six."

No information needs to be given on these two; we've known for a long time who would be going in. Still, Daelianne's expression is lifted by pleasant surprise as the boy appears. "Fender Exxe—they really found him?"

"They did indeed. Cut it close, but he's on the train here now." Chentanko cackles and even I can't help but grin slightly. The memory of his mother's final acts, her song and her smile, float before my eyes. _Would you still be smiling now? We have your son at our mercy. Consider yourself beaten, Abyess Exxe._

"And of course, there's his district partner." The hacker's grin is shark-like as his eyes bore holes into the girl's hologram. "We'll have plenty of fun with her, no doubt about that."

His tone has such a sadistic edge that on any other occasion, I'd reprimand him; this time, however, I'll allow it, and I must admit, I'm even _happy_ about it. Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer deserves whatever fate this twisted man has planned for her.

"Unfortunately, Six far overshadows Seven," Chentanko continues, finally clicking away after the three of us have had our fill of glaring hatefully at Tuppenheimer. "We had two rebels slated to be picked, but the riots threw a wrench into that system. These two were the most convenient to grab from the crowd and run. Huon Milenario and Sequoia Pendunculat."

He skims through the two rather fast, evidently bored now that we've got the most important district out of the way. I'll admit, I'm beginning to lose interest too, until a sharp gasp from Daelianne drags my focus back to the present.

"What?" Chentanko asks, his finger poised about the touchscreen. On the holographic display, the scrawny, frail figure of the District 8 boy is shown.

My vice president doesn't say a word, just stares at the image with wide eyes and an unreadable expression. I put my hand on her knee, concerned. "Daelianne? What's wrong?"

My words snap her out of her inactivity; with a shake of her head, she breaks eye contact with the hologram. "Nothing. Who's this?"

"Mack Ramaye. District Eight soldier, captured and just returned home," Chentanko says slowly, eyeing her carefully. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Why would I know that?" she snaps. "Anyways, move on. Next."

I frown at my vice president, surprised and confused. Sure, I've seen her irritated and nasty towards Chentanko before, but this seems like a whole new level of behaviour. This boy, he means something to her. _District Eight soldier, captured and just returned home. _During the war, Daelianne ran a number of operations for me, so many I couldn't keep track. Could she possibly have—?

"Who's this?" Her curt voice slices through my thoughts, disrupting them before I can finish my question.

"Zibeline Tassle. Our third volunteer." Chentanko smirks at the screen. On the surface, he appears to be completely ignoring Daelianne's strange behaviour, but I can tell he's only doing so for the moment. This is the type of man to file information away, return to it later and exploit it for all its worth. "Made quite the show during her reapings and wound up taking the spot of one of her rebel underlings. She's one to watch out for, right up there with Tuppenheimer and Exxe."

"And Nine?" Suddenly, Daelianne seems to want this over with as quickly as possible.

Nine yields young rebel Miller Sorgum and previous 13 resident Elanie Hobbert. The boy I had nothing to do with, but the girl was another tribute of my choosing. Have to get rid of those ties to 13 as quickly and quietly as possible. It's too bad her siblings weren't of age for this yet, but give it time, I suppose. We can have them reaped in a few years.

_A few years, _I think, as Chentanko introduces Daelianne to Sable Brandmere of 10. It's unfathomable to think of the Hunger Games as becoming an annual event for an indefinite period of time when the first one hasn't even gotten off the ground yet. _Twenty-three dead children every year for forever. Is that really something you want?_

If it means peace for the nation? Yes.

"Ah, and thank you for letting me choose her." Chentanko sniggers as a scowling girl's hologram appears. "Fascia Shewart. I know there were other larger rebel threats to pick from, but trust me, she'll be fun."

"Fun when she's fighting for her life in your sadistic arena, you mean?" Daelianne says. Even though I'm (mostly) resolved to see this idea through, I can tell parts of it still irk my vice president.

"Of course. What else would I mean?" Yoriq chuckles at Daelianne's shock; even I'm surprised how willing he is to admit his questionable tastes in entertainment. Say what you will about the man, but he doesn't appear to hide his true nature from the world. "Now, onto the next one."

The tributes for 11 and 12 are unimpressive, much like their districts. Neither were of huge help to their allies in the war, so there weren't many rebel children to choose from. Instead, we left their reapings mostly up to chance, and were rewarded with Kale Phungii, Arbor Krawp, Winze Reaming and Aloi Ematraseam. One of 11's many tracker jacker venom victims and three orphans—none of them are older than fifteen either. I can't foresee them lasting long.

Strange, to be sitting here contemplating the deaths of twenty-three children. Without the context of the war, it would seem inhumane. Perhaps it still is inhumane. But necessary? I believe so.

"So that's Phase One done, and with minimal problems along the way," Chentanko says, deactivating the holograms. "Spectacular, isn't it? Now we can move onto Phase Two: the chariot race." He claps his hands and grins at the pair of us. "Come on, tell me you're not excited."

"I'm not excited," Daelianne says, dead serious. "I still don't understand the point of this phase."

"Oh, come on. Even the president knows." Chentanko turns his gaze on me. "Don't you, sir? Remember what we talked about earlier."

"I remember perfectly well, thank you very much," I snap. Deep down, I appreciate the hint, but he doesn't have to be such a condescending ass about it.

_The chariot race. _Chentanko's plan seemed pretty simple when he first explained it to me. A pair of tributes in each chariot, one holding the reins, one with a long pole to knock away competitors—admittedly, though, I'd been baffled too as to why he wanted this as a part of the Hunger Games. But now, as I think it over, I believe I'm starting to get it.

"Creates the spirit of competition," I say, considering Chentanko's earlier words to me. "And their desire to win. Their greed."

"He can be taught!" Chentanko beams at me. "Not only that, but it's a very typical Twovian sport. The other tributes will already have a grudge against Aquila and Cassionus because of their district's betrayal in the war, but once it seems like we're catering to their needs, they'll be loathed. The whole thing will turn into a grudge match between districts. Coming out of it, they won't even remember their first and foremost enemy is us."

Will it really be that simple, to turn the focus away from the Capitol? Is greed really that easy to draw out of people? My younger, idealistic self might have answered no, once upon a time, but I've seen the dark side of humanity now, lived through the world at its worst. Chentanko's right. In the end, the rebels' biggest enemy will be their own destructive nature.


	7. Heading to Hell

_**So we've now officially moved into the Capitol chapters for this story. They're definitely a change from the reapings, which might be why this chapter was tougher for me to write. I hope it doesn't show in the writing, but I'm sorry if it does. As always, any feedback on my writing is welcome and much appreciated!**_

_**Small violence/torture warning for this chapter. Basically, whenever you see Mack's POV, brace yourself for something like that.**_

_**Hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!**_

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><p><strong>MACK RAMAYE, 17, DISTRICT 8 MALE<strong>

As soon as Azura shows us our rooms, Zibeline marches into hers with her head held high and slams the door shut. I try to emulate her as best I can, but I have a feeling I'm shaking too much to project the same kind of confidence. Even Azura can tell; I know because she makes no move to stop me, just stares with this pitying look on her face. A part of me hates that she thinks I'm weak, but there's nothing I can really do to disprove this assumption; I can barely stop my hands from trembling long enough to turn the doorknob. Then there's the fact that the only reason I'm escaping to my room is because I know I'm about to have another panic attack.

I finally manage to get the door open and slip into the room, hurriedly shutting myself off from everyone else. Not a moment too soon; the second the door closes, I lose the power to suppress my moans and sink to my knees on the carpeted floor.

_The Capitol. My family. Callie. The riots. The Hunger Games. _There are so many horrors racing around my head I can't even pinpoint which one I'm currently freaking out about. Maybe it's all of them—maybe that's why I feel like I'm drowning in an endless sea of agony.

Unconsciously, my fumbling fingers pinch together the material of my loose shirt collar and I bite down on it hard, trying to muffle my sobs so no one else hears them. Knowing my district partner is one of the most calm, collected, brave girls I've ever seen hasn't helped matters at all. If she to hear me crying, she'd be disgusted. She'd think I was pathetic.

"_I want you to say it. Say it!"_

"_I-I'm a p-p-pathetic, worthless w-waste of s-space who . . . wh-wh-who . . ."_

"_Forgotten already, have you?"_

"_No, no, ple—AHH! I remember, I remember! I'm a pathetic, worthless waste of space and a slave to evil dictators because I am nothing but a hindrance to society!"_

"_Good. Now say—"_

"N-n-n-n-no." My teeth are chattering so violently, I can't even form proper words. _Just g-get it out of your head, Mack. You're not there anymore._

But I'm going back. The same train that took me back to District 8, that drove me towards a miracle, has turned around and condemned me to hell. Why, why did I even think I could escape? They told me I never would, they said it over and over . . .

_What they said wasn't true. You know that._

Even I can tell how weak these thoughts are. After all, they were right about everything else, weren't they? I am pathetic, a worthless waste of space and a hindrance to society. If I wasn't, maybe my family would have missed me while I was gone, instead of taking the chance to move my stuff out of our apartment so my brothers could have another sewing room. Maybe then they would have been happy to see me again, even thrown a party, instead of greeting me awkwardly at the door and proceeding to mostly ignore me. Maybe then Callie Carpé, my girlfriend before I was captured, would have waited for me and welcome me back with open arms, rather than getting with another guy while I was gone and even going so far as to marry him.

_What have I done so wrong?_ I wonder, curling myself into a tighter ball as hot tears begin to flood down my cheeks. _Why have I become someone so horrible that the universe has to punish me over and over again? What can I do to fix myself?_

M-maybe it's because I didn't let the Capitol teach me properly. They kept saying I never learned my lesson, not when they beat me or cut me or burned me or whipped me. Maybe it's because I didn't listen to them, because I never gave them the information they wanted, even though I didn't have it to begin with. But I could have tried to help them. Maybe then I'd be a better person, not a, a . . . _"useless little piece of shit who we're going to tear to fucking _pieces_."_

No, no, helping them wasn't the answer! W-was it? Oh Panem, I don't even know anymore.

I don't know how long I stay curled up in front of the door, sobbing into my shirt, but the material is absolutely drenched by the time Azura knocks tentatively on my door. "Mack? It's dinner time, please come eat."

"_W-what's this?" I say cautiously as the guards at my sides shove me down on a chair opposite the blue-haired woman—the master torturer._

"_Dinner time, Mr. Ramaye," she says, gesturing to the table laden with food. After being fed nothing but grey paste for two weeks, the sight nearly causes me to faint. "I've decided, why should we be enemies? Think of this as a gesture of goodwill."_

"_O . . . kay." I glance nervously around at the food, but it does look good and the woman's smile seems genuine. Maybe she really is sorry for what she's done to me._

"_Have a bun," she says, indicating the breadbasket beside her. Hesitantly, I stretch an arm out. She spurs me on with a nod and I grab one, bringing it back to my plate. Dear Panem, I can't believe how good it smells._

_In a blink of an eye, I've devoured it; I just can't help myself. The woman smiles. "You like that?"_

"_Y-yeah."_

"_Good. Have another. Don't worry, there are lots. Now, while you eat, shall we have a friendly conversation about District Six's plans for the war."_

_I freeze. "S-sorry?"_

_Her smile remains, but there's a hard side to it now. "Eat, Mr. Ramaye, please. You're among friends now. And friends tell each other secrets, don't you agree?"_

"_Yes," I say, carefully stretching my hand out towards the breadbasket. "But that's a secret I don't know."_

"_You must know something."_

"_No one ever told me anything."_

"_Then you must have overheard something. Your district is Six's biggest ally. Come on, don't be shy. What are their plans for the war?"_

"_Sorry, I really don't know anything, I swear."_

_Her lips are still curved upwards, but all traces of friendliness have disappeared from her pink eyes. Normally, I'd never consider magenta anywhere close to a dangerous colour, but it's bloodcurdling on her._

_Before I can blink, she grabs the steak knife by her plate and slams the blade down into my outstretched hand with such force it pins my palm to the table. I can't even cry out; my body has instantly gone into complete, catatonic shock._

"_I knew this tactic was a waste of time," she says as the first wave of pain crashes into me with the sudden ferocity of a tsunami. Over my screams, she continues, "Back to the drawing board, then. Take him back to his cell."_

"—okay? Are you coming down to dinner?"

"I'll be right out," I manage to say in a strangled squeak. The fingers of my left hand brush against the back of my right, where the thin, raised scar cuts across my skin. _Force the memories down, force the memories down. _I know going outside will likely bring them right back up, but I can't inconvenience Azura or anyone else. If I do, then I'm a bad person, and then I'll be punished again.

I try as best I can to wipe traces of tears from my face, but there's nothing I can do about my damp shirt. Thankfully, Azura doesn't seem to notice as I step outside—or if she does, she doesn't mention it. Zibeline's door is still firmly shut, and Azura doesn't seem to think this will change anytime soon because, with a sigh, she says, "All right, let's go to the dining car. I'm sure Ms. Tassle can find us if she needs to."

I follow Azura silently down the hall, like a good person would do. Only when we enter the dining car do I freeze, taking in the sight before me.

"Mack? What's wrong? Not a fan of seafood?"

That does seem to be the theme of dinner. Platters of oysters and muscles, enormous plates of crab and lobster with accompanying boats of dipping sauce. And fish, plates upon plates of fish, grilled whole or sliced and spiced or chopped into tiny cubes and served with a tower of mashed potatoes.

I don't have anything against fish; in fact, the odd time my mother cooked it up, I loved it. But to eat it now feels almost . . . it's ridiculous, but almost cannibalistic_. _After all, what am I but a fish caught on the Capitol's hook? They reel me in to play with, then let me back out to swim in safe waters, just long enough for me to regain hope so it's all the more devastating when they drag me back in again. I was stupid, so, so stupid to ever think I'd escape.

"_How many times do I have to tell you, Ramaye? You're not going anywhere. This is your life now. You are the Capitol's bitch, and you will stay that way until the end of your days."_

* * *

><p><strong>ELANIE HOBBERT, 16, DISTRICT 9 FEMALE<strong>

"That was Mack Ramaye, folks, a previous rebel soldier. This punishment should serve him well, don't you agree?"

"Here's Elegance Lamoore, the District One slut who poisoned good Capitol men during the war. Apologies for my language, but there's no better word to describe her. Did you know—?"

"District Twelve wound up with two unconscious tributes: Aloi Ematraseam was in a coma after some fire-related injuries and Winze Reaming passed out when his name was called. Not much competition from those two, I should think."

_This is all they have on? _I sigh, flipping through channel after channel of nothing but reaping coverage. Whatever happened to all those good shows before the war? TV in 9 is rare, but back home in 13 it was a great pastime. These shows are all crap though.

I switch to the channel known for romantic dramas—not my favourite genre, but it'd be better than watching more live coverage of the reapings. But, lo and behold, they've interrupted their usual programs to talk Hunger Games here too! I groan, flinging the remote to the far end of the couch in defeat. Maybe I should just go to bed, like our Capitol escort suggested.

Inwardly, though, I know that's not an option. My district partner can deny it all he likes; I know these Hunger Games are serious. No way the Capitol would put this much effort into a bluff. So while Miller has shut himself away in his room, sleeping or raging about the Capitol or whatever it is he does, I've chosen to camp out on the couch in the leisure car; TV is the only thing that will keep me awake and out of grasp of nightmares.

"—strait jacket and everything! Ladies and gentlemen, I think it's safe to say we have a certifiable nut on our hands."

"Quite right, Kestrel. But let's discuss the girl, shall we? Most have been ignoring her, but Caidi Iyaun comes with her own little horror story to tell."

"Right, yes. Remember that man at the reapings, the one crying out when she got picked? That's Lux Iyaun, her father. Looks like a scrawny nerd, I know—who would have thought he'd be a mass murderer?"

"Yes, that's right folks, Caidi Iyaun's father was one of the lead scientists to develop the bombs that blew up Thirteen. How do you think the other tributes will react when they hear of young Miss Iyaun and her family's betrayal?"

My eyes, which had begun to tiredly inch shut, shoot open as I jerk to the edge of the couch. This is news I hadn't heard before; whenever 5 was mentioned on previous talk shows, all the hosts discussed was the crazy boy and his rather wild reaction to being reaped. Who knew the real monster was the one hiding in his shadow.

I glare in disgust as the image of the 5 girl pops up onscreen. Only thirteen, she couldn't look any less villainous with her dainty blonde braids and wide green eyes. Deep down, a tiny part of me knows it's because she's not a villain, not really, just a victim of being related to one. In a way, it's sort of the same reason the Niners treated me and my siblings with contempt, even though we personally have done nothing wrong.

But damn it, let me be a hypocrite and hate her anyways! I've lived my whole life being rational; with the impending horror of the Hunger Games looming over me, I think I've earned the right to let my temper fly free.

With one last glare of hate, I grab the remote and press down furiously on the power button, wishing to erase the girl's face from existence. In my blind rage, I wind up hitting the channel button instead, but whatever, Caidi Iyaun still disappears. I cross my arms and sit back in a huff; well, she's gone for now, at least. But I know sooner or later, I'll wind up facing this girl in real life, the daughter of the man who helped slaughter my people. I've always prided myself on being calm and collected, but this time, I don't know if I could stop myself from doing something drastic.

_What does it matter, anyways? In the Hunger Games, you're _supposed _to kill people. It would get you one step closer._

I flinch at the thought, shaking my head furiously to try and rid the idea from my mind. What was that? I can't . . . I mean, I can't consider _killing _a thirteen-year-old girl, no matter how awful she may be. Yes, this may be the mindset I need in order to come out of these Hunger Games alive, but I can't jump into it so quickly. Otherwise I won't be a survivor—I'll be a psychopath.

Oh, this is all too confusing! I put my head in my hands, trying to sort out the madness of my thoughts. These Games are as much a psychological torture as a physical punishment and already I can feel myself cracking under it. This . . . argh, this sucks! I just want to go back to my quiet life in 9—no, back before then, to 13. Where food was plentiful, home were comfortable and, above all, people were kind. Now I'll never even know if any of them are still alive.

"—is the bastard who ran that atrocious radio show, Districts on Alert."

I was barely paying attention to the still-tuned-in television, but the word "radio" immediately catches my attention. It's been my one hope for the past six months.

Lifting my head from my hands, I glance blearily at the screen to find yet another pair of talk show hosts discussing the Hunger Games. On a large screen behind them, the ending of 3's reapings are shown, but they quickly cut from a long shot of the ceremony to a close up of the tribute they now discuss. Mikael Rasauf. I remember him vaguely from an earlier recap, but not much has been said about him so far; with all the crazy tributes and die-hard rebels in the mix, he flew under the radar much like myself.

"I was hoping they'd have killed him right along with those twins." One of the hosts, a woman with startlingly green hair, relaxes back in her plush seat, her arms folded in disgust. "The things they said on that show—beyond disrespectful."

"True, true. But you know," the other host, a man entirely dyed purple, continues, "I'm _glad _he's still alive. He deserves a punishment like the Hunger Games." The man laughs. "No way a tech nerd like him will survive long."

_Tech nerd. _Now, when have I heard those words before?

It's as though a giant weight on my shoulders has begun to rise as I continue to listen to the hosts prattling on about Mikael Rasauf. Their dialogue is heavily interspersed with insults and threats to the tribute, yet it's relatively easy to sift through and get the facts all the same. Eighteen years old, one of the smartest minds of his age in 3, operated the equipment for the rebels' main radio show—this could work.

Of course, I have complete faith in Milo to get the radio working on his end. He'll save my siblings, I have no doubt. But I can't help wanting to know about 13's situation too. And if, on the off chance I . . . well, I don't make it back, I won't have the opportunity to hear his findings and finally speak to someone from my own district again. Which means I have to take matters into my own hands, before the Hunger Games ruin my life.

As the night goes on, I repeatedly flip through the TV channels, pausing only when I catch one covering District 3. Oddly enough, despite my impending death hanging over me like a cloud, I find myself starting to smile. A plan is forming in my head.

* * *

><p><strong>HAL IBBIT, 15, DISTRICT 4 MALE<strong>

Pain races up my leg as I slam my foot into the wall again. It hurts enough to draw a sharp gasp from me—I'm pretty sure I've broken at least one toe at this point—but there's still not a single, frigging dent! I've been at this for hours and the god-awful wallpaper is still just as perfect as it was when they first threw me in here.

With a yell of frustration, I slam my fist into the wall, immediately regretting it as my already purple knuckles spark with agony once more. _Okay, okay Hal, time to stop. _As much as I want to break something, tear this whole train apart with my bare hands, it's become clear these walls are essentially indestructible. All I'm doing is hurting myself.

I let a resentful groan of defeat slip through my lips as I turn and lean against the wall, sliding down 'til I hit the floor. This way, I have a perfect view of the sparse furniture throughout the room: the small bed, the oaken dresser, the sturdy desk. Each a reminder of my failure to stick it to the Capitol—I must have pounded everything in here for at least twenty minutes and nothing showed any signs of breaking. Even the curtains seem welded in place; evidently the Capitol knew who they were dealing with when they decided to furnish my room.

The _room_, I think, curling my lip in disgust. _Not my room. _This place is no more mine than the cell I was kept in for the past four months. It's just another prison, a temporary dungeon to hold me until my execution has passed. 'Cause that's what they are, these Hunger Games—no fancy title or elaborate rules can fool me into thinking this is anything other than the slaughter of remaining rebels. I know how the world works, and you know what, I don't care. They want to scare me? Well, fuck them! I'll meet death with my head held high; I'll show them how a real man, a true Ibbit behaves, rather than a coward who's so scared of his enemies he has to force them to kill each other so he doesn't have to.

And yes, by coward I am of course referring to Orion Hausler, Panem's so-called president. I sneer at the air in front of me, practice for when I come face to face with my biggest enemy. You know what, I can't _wait _until we get to the Capitol. Then I can finally show the president what I think of him. Then I can finally figure out how to kill him.

I've got a while to wait yet, though; it's only just midnight. The sight of the numbers on the digital clock (also unbreakable, damn it) awakens hidden fatigue within me and unconsciously, my eyelids droop. No! I can't sleep, not when my enemies are so close. For all I know they could be watching me now, and what would they think if I dozed off? They would laugh; they would think they had beaten me. Maybe I should go back to punching the windows . . .

A few timid knocks on the door startle me out of my tired musings. Who the heck could that be? After a rather dreadful dinner (during which I'd gotten into a shouting match with our stupid escort and wound up trying to fling plastic cutlery at him), I was sent to my room and told not to leave until we reached the Capitol. They've even got a Peacekeeper standing guard outside just to make sure.

The knocking comes again, and suddenly I'm positive it's that damn Capitol man back to yell at me some more. "Go away, you piece of shit!" I scream in the direction of the door.

The knocking stops. Then comes a quiet, "Um . . . it's me. Anne. But I guess, I mean, if you were really referring to me . . ."

I hop up and cross the room in a few quick strides to open the door. Sure enough, Anne Emony stands in the hall, a burly Peacekeeper behind her. I shoot the man a glare before turning my gaze back on the girl. "Sorry. Thought you were someone else. What's up?"

I never really knew Anne Emony before four months ago, other than knowing _of _her, of course; Emony was a pretty renowned name in 4. We became familiar with each other when we were both in jail, though, as the only two rebels who weren't to be harmed by the Peacekeepers. They'd had "other plans" for us.

"Well, I was, uh, I was wondering . . ." Anne looks at her feet, her fingers fidgeting madly with the fringe of her shirt. She's quite awkward and, er, eccentric, to say the least—not that that's bad or anything, but I must admit, it's a bit of a letdown after hearing all the stories of how cool her dad was. "I talked to these, um, Peacekeepers and that escort guy and it took a while but they, um, they said we could stay together. You know, in the same room."

"What?" I didn't mean for it to come out so sharply, but I couldn't help it.

"I . . ." Her tanned cheeks are aflame with a fiery blush; the fidgeting becomes quicker and more desperate. "Look, I . . . I just . . . I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I'm afraid all this will disappear."

I'm about to ask why on Earth she'd be afraid of this disappearing when her gaze crosses mine and I catch a glimpse the fear within her watering eyes. It startles me into silence; seeing someone older than you breaking down is always a shock.

"I-I'm worried I'll be alone again." She sucks in a deep breath and wraps her arms around herself, forming the loneliest hug in the world. "And I-I can't stand that. Being alone. N-n-not anymore."

I hesitate for a second. But I don't want to leave a Fouris out here looking so weak and vulnerable in front of a Peacekeeper. And, more to the point, I feel bad for Anne. I personally don't see how just being stuck on an island for a while could mess a person up so badly, but she's obviously suffering.

"Sure, come on in. You can use the bed, I'm not sleeping."

Relief flows like a tidal wave over her features. "No, no, it's fine." She steps inside and utters a small, nervous laugh. "I've kind of gotten used to sleeping on the ground."

I shoot the smirking Peacekeeper outside one final glare and slam the door in his face before turning back to Anne. "Okay then. Whatever works for you."

She's already curled up in a small ball in the corner of the room, arms crossed underneath her head to form a pillow. Her breathing is so quiet and even, I almost believe she's already asleep, until I grab a blanket for her and she whispers, "Thanks, Hal."

"No problem," I say, draping the sheet over her thin frame.

"No, thanks for everything. For being with me all this time."

"Wasn't really me who decided that." It's true—I mean, it was the Capitol's fault we wound up in adjoining cells.

"Still, thank you." She yawns, blinking blearily up at me. "You have no idea how much it means to me to have a friend again."

_Are we friends_? It's a question I ponder as I leave her to sleep, retreating once more to my side of the room, away from Anne and the door. Friends almost seems like too loose a term for us. No, Anne and I don't share any interests or hobbies or whatever, and under normal circumstances, we probably would never have considered interacting. But she lost her mom early in the war, and her dad when his ship was destroyed; I watched the Capitol murder my entire family in cold blood. An unspoken bond was struck through mutual loss, and the Capitol brought us closer together by imprisoning us for the same reason.

That was where they made their big mistake. Sure, Anne may not be the man her father was, but underneath that fear and awkwardness, I believe there's a rebellious passion waiting to be released. And I may be young, but trust me, I've got more fighting spirit than a dozen adults. Together, we can beat these stupid Games. Together, we can defy the Capitol. Together, we can take down Orion Hausler.

Mechanically, I rise and start kicking the wall once more. The dull _thump, thump, thump_ doesn't wake my district partner—good. She needs to rest, to recover the rebel spirit she lost on that island. I can go all night though, and all day after that.

I glare at the unmarred wall, slamming my foot into once more. _You've got to break sometime, and I won't stop until you do. I won't stop until the entire Capitol is nothing but a pile of rubble. Take _that_._

* * *

><p><strong>KALE PHUNGII, 12, DISTRICT 11 MALE<strong>

_I'm a floating cloud, high above the world, watching events unfold below, and yet, simultaneously, I'm somehow down on the ground as well. That me, the non-cloud me, is eleven, all sparkling brown eyes and bouncing black curls, racing around the orchards as only kids do. But it doesn't last—I know it doesn't._

_Cloud me watches young me pause at the base of a large apple tree, staring in awe up at something in the branches: an enormous golden hive, round and shimmering in the sunlight. It doesn't look like a normal wasp nest and anyways, tracker jackers were a just-heard-of development. No one knew they had already gotten to 11._

_Young me picks up a rock on the ground, staring determinedly at the hive up above. I remember the awe I felt at the sight, the desire I had to possess something so beautiful. My sister Acari's birthday was coming up and she's always been into artsy things. Maybe she'd like this gift._

"_It's not worth it," cloud me tries to say. "Kale, don't, DON'T!"_

_But I do. The rock leaves my hand in a flash and flies with deadly accuracy towards the hive. It hits squarely in the centre, knocking the golden orb from its perch. As it falls, young me notices the buzzing sound for the first time, getting louder and louder as the hive plummets towards him._

_Then they come._

"_No!" I scream, and it is me now, just me on the ground facing a hoard of furious tracker jackers. "No, no, no!"_

_I want to run, want to hide, yet I'm powerless to do anything but watch as the swarm descends on me. Not an inch of my skin is left untouched; soon I'm completely coated in gold, all of my nerves alight at the feeling of millions of tiny legs crawling over my skin. The stingers rise—_

"_No, no!"_

—_and plunge deep into my skin, lighting a thousand fires with their monstrous venom._

"_No!"_

_I can see it, physically see the poison coursing through my veins, rendering the blue lines black, corroding my skin wherever it touches._

"_No!"_

_The agony is impossible, unbearable, sending me plummeting into a dark void of pain where shadowed figures claw at my back and torturous cries ring in my ears._

"_N—"_

Pain, real pain this time, ripples across my cheek, and with a gasp, I jerk upright. My surroundings are unfamiliar, as are the two men crowded beside my bed, until I remember bright orange hair indicates the Capitol man Tiberian and the white uniform indicates a Peacekeeper.

"There we go." The officer's hand is still raised, and with stinging realisation, I realise he just slapped me. "No more screaming."

Tiberian frowns. "Well, I think that might have been a mite harsh—"

"_What _are you two _doing_?"

Arbor Krawp stands in the doorway of my bedroom in a nightgown, her wild brown hair in disarray and her hands on her hips. "Did you just slap him?" she continues, watching the Peacekeeper with a glare reminiscent of a schoolteacher. "Did you?"

"How else are we supposed to get any sleep?" the man grumbles, but I can tell he's a bit put off by Arbor's expression, despite her being several decades younger than him.

She frowns at both Tiberian and the Peacekeeper and jabs her thumb over her shoulder. "Out, both of you. Let the pro handle this."

"Ms. Krawp, the problem's been dealt with," Tiberian says, stepping away from my bed. "Perhaps, admittedly not in the _best_ way, but—"

"But you've just given this kid another reason to have nightmares. Pain is never the answer—first rule of dealing with crying children." She shakes her head disparagingly. "Clearly you two don't have kids."

Tiberian blushes furiously and the Peacekeeper mumbles something about "working on it". If the toxin and fear weren't still ruling my mind, I might have been amazed at Arbor's ability to transform two grown men into her disappointing pupils.

"Now leave and let the master go to work." She steps into my room and indicates the door once more. Surprisingly, both men head out, Tiberian with a confused, amused look on his face while the Peacekeeper mutters about everything being taken care of anyways. When they're both gone, Arbor closes the door softly behind them and turns to me. "All right, come here," she says, opening her arms.

I sniff, wiping my sleeve across my face. "I'm not a baby. You can't fix my problems with a hug."

"Whoa there, Mr. Back Talk. I'll have you know babies weren't the only ones crying in the orphanage. Hugs help everyone."

"Not me." Even though I seem to have reached a rare moment of lucidity, I can still feel the venom poking at the back of my mind, trying to unravel my sanity once more. "Nothing can fix me."

"Well, not with that attitude." Arbor comes to sit on the edge of my bed, crossing her arms and frowning at me. "What makes you so 'unfixable', huh?"

I stare at her, not sure if she's asking a rhetorical question. "You saw when I got reaped, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"So . . ." I shrug, helplessly; my condition's always been so obvious to people, I've never really had to explain it before. "I'm nuts."

She pauses for a moment to consider this. Her long brown hair brushes against her shoulder as she cocks her head to the side. "Don't seem nuts to me."

"It comes and goes." I sigh, wrapping my arms around my knees. "Comes more often than goes."

"But you admitted you're nuts. People who actually _are_ nuts don't do that."

"I'm a special kind of nuts. Tracker jacker nuts."

The words are out of my mouth before I think of the consequences. Already I can hear their frenzied buzzing in my ears. It won't be long now before they start appearing before my vision as well, torturing me with phantom pain. "No, no . . ."

"Kale?"

Was that a flash of gold in the corner of my vision? The hallucination is coming, I know it is. Still, I somehow manage to stammer out, "J-just, just tell everyone else I'm sorry about the s-screaming. I c-can't help—"

Suddenly, the window disappears, then the whole outer wall of the train, allowing me a clear view of outside, where a host of tracker jackers swarm, waiting for me.

"Kale, it's nothing, all right? It's just a hallucination, just a nightmare. Stay with me, kid."

Already her voice is fading away, like she's talking to me over the phone and our connection is disappearing because I'm going through a tunnel, a tunnel of gold and wasps and pain that never ends. Once upon a time, I thought it might; Nurse Cyles and all the doctors at my institution said I was getting better and I really believed it, too. But not anymore. How can I escape from nightmares when my whole life is one?

Arbor disappears, the tracker jackers swarm and I fall once more into a pit of darkness.

* * *

><p><strong>SEQUOIA PENDUNCULAT, 12, DISTRICT 7 FEMALE<strong>

_Wow. _The Capitol is, is . . . _breathtaking._

I plaster my face to the window glass, staring wide-eyed at the sight before me. Even Huon steps up to my side, and though his expression is, as always, unreadable, I'm pretty sure I can see a hint of awe in his dark eyes.

Stretching out before us is a vast city of colours and light. Skyscrapers rise up to brush the sky, their glass faces reflecting the brilliant beams of the sun and turning them into towers of gold. Other buildings are shorter and squatter, with large domed roofs and glistening pillars painted every colour of the rainbow. Each second we get closer, more beautiful details appear, causing my jaw to drop continuously lower and lower.

"Looks like we'll be arriving in the station soon." Our escort, Drusilla, shoves her plate away from her and leans back in her chair. "Breakfast is over. Get to the doors, move it."

She doesn't have to tell me twice. Peeling myself off the window, I bound away from our table, out the dining car and towards where we first entered the train. Huon's heavy footfalls follow close behind. I wonder if he's feeling it too: excitement at seeing the legendary place known as the Capitol. Everyone says they're the enemies of the districts and yes, I know they're the reason I've been stolen away from my home to face punishment, but who could stop themselves from feeling a little enthusiastic to finally set foot in the home of Panem's wealth? Even the most modest building in the city looked hundreds of times more exquisite than the mayor's manor back in 7.

Drusilla appears at our sides as the train begins to slow, indicating we're close. "Right," she sputters through a mouthful of the breakfast pastry she's still chewing on. "Now, my job is to get you from the station to the waiting car. Don't fuck this up for me. There's gonna be a crowd and they're all probably going to hate your guts, but no yelling at them, no insulting them back, no trying to fight, got it? Any problems on your part and I'll personally wring your necks. Understood?"

"Understood," I whisper meekly, some of the spring going out of my step. This woman kind of scares me.

Huon doesn't respond (he doesn't talk much in general, really), but he gives a firm nod. It's funny, he looks like he was built expressly for the purpose of beating people up, but in reality, he seems to hate violence almost as much as I do. It's nice; makes me feel like I'm not such an outsider. Back home, everyone is so obsessed with war and rebelling that my views on being peaceful are often quickly shot down.

The train glides silently to a halt, making me jump, from nerves or excitement I'm not entirely sure. I still really want to see the beauty the Capitol has to offer—but Drusilla's words have made me a bit nervous.

"Remember, none of this rebelling shit." Drusilla glares at us as she shoves the last of the pastry into her mouth. "Now move. Me first."

Huon and I step back, allowing her to slip in front of us just as the doors slide open, releasing a barrage of light into the car. I try to raise a hand to protect my eyes, but Drusilla grabs my wrist in her vise-like grip. She does the same to Huon, her stubby fingers barely reaching around his thick skin, and before we know it, we're dragged out onto the platform for the world to see.

Drusilla was right about one thing; there are hundreds of people out here, mostly reporters armed with cameras and microphones. But almost none of them are looking in our direction.

"W-what's going on over there?" I ask timidly, pointing with my free hand towards the largest knot of people. Shouts are arising from the crowd, as well as murmurs and cruel laughs from the Capitol citizen.

Drusilla narrows her eyes. "That's Four's train," she says, referring to another set of tracks behind the mob, where a sleek and silver train identical to our own has come to a stop. "Figures. I knew Ogilby would be fucking useless at this."

Glaring at the crowd, she shoves her way over to the other train, dragging Huon and I behind her. A few people finally take notice of us and snap some pictures, but most of the attention is still on whatever is happening at the centre of the mob. The shouts get louder as Drusilla draws nearer, until, shoving a pair of reporters out of her way, she drags us, stumbling, into the action.

I recognise the tributes from 4 immediately, as well as their escort; Drusilla made us sit and watch the recap of all the reapings last night. The Capitol man is standing well away from the two kids, his expression a mess of disgust and fear. The girl seems calm—actually, almost bewildered. She stares around at the crowd of Capitolites like she's never seen this many people before. A Peacekeeper has his hand clamped down on her shoulder, his mouth a grim line and eyes narrowed suspiciously, as though he's expecting her to start attacking someone at any moment.

The rest of the Peacekeepers are occupied with the 4 boy. He's positively wild, thrashing about and kicking against the hands restraining him, all while yelling obscenities at the crowd of reporters. The sheer force of the rage in his voice makes me want to run and hide.

"Ogilby!" Drusilla shouts, striding over to him and still dragging us behind her. "What the fuck's going on?"

"You heard me over the call yesterday—I told you I had crazy tributes!" The man, Ogilby, slams his palms over his ears. "It's been nothing but constant yelling since they were reaped! What do I do?"

"Get them to the fucking car, you imbecile. Honestly, did you sleep through the debrief?" Drusilla rolls her eyes before turning to the Peacekeepers. "You lot! Escort these tributes out of the station and to the cars."

One man breaks away from holding the 4 boy, his hostile glare locked on us. "You need any help with these two, ma'am?"

"Do I look like I need fucking help? These two are sheep. Waste your time worrying about—"

At that moment, the boy from 4 manages to yank himself away from the remaining Peacekeepers' grip. With a roar, he launches himself at the nearest reporter, who, caught off-guard, goes down without a fight. "What did you say about my mother?" the boy yells, raising his fist to punch the defenseless Capitolite. "_What did you say_? You fucker, she was the bravest woman who ever lived!"

He slams his fist into the man's face and immediately blood bursts up from his broken nose. I shriek despite myself; not more violence, not so soon! The horrors of 7's riots are still fresh in my mind as the boy raises his hand for another hit.

The Peacekeepers have recovered by now though, and quickly move to apprehend him. He screams as they drag him away, kicking legs still trying to hit the man on the ground. Drusilla, meanwhile, turns to face the crowd and shouts, "Okay, anyone else who wants to be attacked, feel free to stick around. If you'd like your faces intact, get the fuck out of our way. _Now_."

Immediately, the crowd parts. Drusilla strides through the lines of people, hustling Huon and I along behind her. A glance over my shoulder shows Ogilby hurrying to keep up, followed by the Peacekeeper restraining the 4 girl. Behind them comes the boy, carried by four men gripping his legs and arms tight. His shouts ring out through the cavernous train station as we're led away from the tracks and through the main lobby, swear words echoing everywhere around me. I squeeze my eyes shut; this isn't a healthy atmosphere.

Drusilla practically kicks the station doors open and drags us down the steps, where there is indeed a car waiting. Ogilby hurries ahead and flings the back door wide, gesturing for the Peacekeepers to shove his female tribute inside. Drusilla, meanwhile, strides over to the driver's seat and raps her knuckles on the shaded window.

A confused-looking man appears as he rolls the window down. "Hey, you know I'm only supposed to be taking the Seven kids," he says as the Peacekeepers force the 4 boy into the car. "Four's driver is late."

"Well, you're taking them all now. Get them to the Training Centre as fast as possible," Drusilla snaps. Before he can utter a word of protest, she turns and shoves first me, then Huon into the car before slamming the door shut.

It's quite crowded in the back; I'm pretty sure only three people should be sitting here at a time. I'm sandwiched between my district partner and the still-struggling 4 boy, which makes it pretty hard to wriggle my arms out in the tight space and put my seatbelt on. Then I realise there are indeed only three seatbelts back here.

"Um . . ." I go to tap on the glass partition separating us from the driver, but the 4 boy beats me to it.

"Let us out, you son of a bitch!" he screams, pounding on the glass so hard, I'm worried it might break. "You coward! All of you, cowards! Come back here and fight me!"

I have to stop this before someone else gets hurt. "Um, H-Hal?" The boy's name was Hal, right? I think so.

It takes three more repetitions of his name before he finally hears me. "What?" he spits, and though I know the venom in his words isn't directed at me, it makes me cringe all the same.

"I-I think . . . I mean, maybe you should stop fighting . . ."

"Stop fighting?" he echoes incredulously. "What, and let these bastards walk all over us? Never. No, I'll show them." He turns back to the glass, hands balling into fists once more. "I'll show you all!"

"But violence . . . violence is never the best answer."

"Who do you think you are, kid?" he snaps, turning his furious glare on me. "What are you, twelve? I bet you didn't even fight in the rebellion."

"O-of course not. Fighting is—"

"Then don't you _dare_ tell me how to lead my life. Violence is the _only_ answer when it comes to these pieces of shits. And I won't rest until they're all DEAD!" He punctuates the last word with a resounding blow to the glass panel. "When I get out of here, I fucking swear . . ."

His rant goes on, overwhelmingly loud and angry. I can feel tears pricking at the corner of my eyes, both because of his hate towards the Capitol and his harsh words to me. Why can't everyone just be nice? "Please," I say, leaning around Hal's flailing limbs to appeal to his district partner. Maybe she can calm him down. "Please, you know this isn't good."

She stares at me, and for a moment I almost think I've won her over. Then, in a quiet voice, she murmurs, "The Capitol killed his entire family and locked him up for four months. I'd say he has the right to this."

I remember a story like that being said by the commentators broadcasting the reapings recap last night, but the words still send a chill through my heart. What happened to this poor boy, it's so horrible_ . . . _Yet I know the violence will only bring more problems.

"Huon." I twist my body the other way, turning to face my district partner. "Please, I know you hate fighting as much as I do. Can't you talk some sense into him?"

My district partner's gaze shifts from the window to my pleading eyes to Hal shouting and pummeling the glass. A cold feeling seeps into my stomach; even before he speaks, I can tell Huon won't help.

"I don't hate fighting. I just don't like to get involved." He goes back to staring out the window, crossing his arms obstinately. "Stay out of things that don't concern you, kid. Besides, if you ask me, they all deserve it."

He might as well have punched me in the gut. I gawk at him helplessly, unable to stop the wave of betrayal rising up in me. It's ridiculous; I mean, Huon and I haven't even spoken to each other 'til now—there should be no feeling of friendship present to _be_ betrayed. Yet I feel it all the same.

Biting my lip to keep from crying, I cross my own arms and turn away, curling up despondently in my seat. Beside me, the constant _thump _of fists on glass and the never-ending stream of curses sound steadily in my ears. Neither of the older kids do anything to stop it. It's like the hatred has already infected their minds, desensitising them to acts of violence. H-how soon before that happens to me too?


	8. Gathering of the Condemned

_**Been a little while, but I'm back with another chapter. Not too sure how I feel about this one - it was definitely different to write. As you could probably tell by the president's chapter, the pre-Hunger Games stuff will not be exactly the same as what happened in the books. In my mind, the chariot parade started off as actual races, so that's what I'll be doing for this story to see how it goes :)**_

_**Also, apologies but the chapters will be a little long. I get so excited when there are opportunities for the tributes to interact, it's one of my favourite parts to write, so I might have gotten a bit carried away. Hopefully it's not too overwhelming though! If you do find them too long or you don't like this format for the chapters, feel free to let me know - feedback is always appreciated. Hope you enjoy this chapter!**_

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><p><strong>MIKE RASAUF, 18, DISTRICT 3<strong>

Oh crap. It's the first day of high school all over again.

At least, it certainly feels that way as Peecy and I are ushered into the large gym before being ditched unceremoniously by our escort. In the middle of the room are numerous couches, chairs, tables with piles of magazines and, of course, a multitude of teenagers who all do the typical stop-talking-and-stare-openly thing as soon as we walk in.

It makes me uncomfortable, a feeling that only worsens when I realise they all seem so _relaxed. _I scan the crowd, hoping to find at least one person who looks like an awkward loner, but nope, they've all succeeded in either making friends or looking ridiculously cool about being on their own.

I shuffle nervously on the spot, my mind racing with a dozen possibilities. Should I introduce myself to the staring kids? Should I slink off to my own spot and ignore the embarrassment of being by myself? Should I start talking to Peecy to not seem so alone?

Yeah, 'cause an eighteen-year-old chatting up a thirteen-year-old _totally _doesn't look desperate.

For better or for worse, I'm saved from making the decision as a girl with shimmering blonde hair steps towards us, gracefully extending her hand. "Elegance Lamoore, District One." Her voice is silky, sultry, and her deep blue eyes are focused entirely on me.

"Mikael Rasauf, District Three," I answer back, cautiously extending my hand. I remember hearing about this girl on the reapings recap last night—pretty sure she was the one proficient in poisons.

She gives me an alluring smile as we shake hands, squeezing my fingers ever so gently between her own. It's clear she's trying to win me over, but all these little gestures are doing is making me suspicious. I'm a nerd, and a rather unattractive one at that—girls, especially girls like this, don't flirt with me. Ever.

"And I'm Peecy," my district partner pipes up quietly beside me. "Peecy Siber."

Elegance smiles down at her, and I've got to give her credit, she looks genuinely pleased to meet the younger girl. I've got a nagging feeling this is all an act, though.

"Charmed," the 1 girl says, shaking Peecy's hand as well. "Wonderful to have more company. Why don't you come join us?" she continues, her eyes focused back on me. "We might be here a while."

"Right. Um . . ." I glance around the room once more, trying to remember what the recaps said about each of these tributes. Maybe it's nerves frying my brain cells, but the only ones I can think of off the top of my head aren't exactly making me keen to join the crowd: Elegance's district partner, Glamour Sumptaious who not only volunteered for this but is so muscled he seems at least twice my size; the pair from 4, Anne Emony and Hal Ibbit, a kooky girl and an enraged rebel. And of course, who could forget Azimuth Kurindt, the boy who's implicated in all sorts of horrific events occurring during the siege of the Duskendawn Power Plant.

My eyes linger on the sixteen-year-old brooding in a far corner by himself, and by change, he happens to glance up at the same time. Our gazes cross, and I can't help but shudder. Those eyes . . . Those are the eyes of insanity.

Perhaps Elegance notices my unease because she pats me reassuringly on the shoulder. Or rather, tries too; I'm a few good inches taller than she is, so her hand winds up tapping my chest instead—for some reason, I have a feeling that was her intention in the first place. "Don't be shy," she says, chuckling amiably. "We're all strangers right now. But I hope that won't stop us all from becoming friends."

"Some of us more than others, right?"

Elegance's slim eyebrows rise as she glances over her shoulder, where another blonde girl stands with her arms crossed. I rack my brain for memories of the recaps, trying to put a name to her face . . . Elanie, yeah? Elanie Hobbert from 9.

Elegance's delicate features twist into an expression of naïve confusion. "I haven't the faintest idea what you mean." This lie is weakened slightly as her hand is still lingering on my chest, despite the reassuring pats ceasing a while ago. "Now, is there something you want, Nine?"

"I want to talk to the Three boy."

Well, that comes as a shock. I seem to be all kinds of popular today.

"Oh, _do _you?" Elegance pulls her hand away from me, smirking knowingly in Elanie's direction. "Well, then of course, it'd be rude of me to keep you apart. Have fun _talking_."

The emphasis she places on the last word makes it rather obvious when she says "talking", she means anything but. The implications cause Elanie's cheeks to blaze red, and she doesn't stop glaring at Elegance until the girl from 1 has tossed her hair over her shoulder with a giggle and sashayed away.

The 9 girl's irritated gaze then turns on my district partner, who doesn't take long to catch on. "Oh. You want to talk alone. Got it." Peecy sighs, throws me a mournful look and slowly trudges away.

This leaves me alone with Elanie Hobbert, which immediately throws my system into ultimate caution mode. Not much was said about her during the recaps, but if she follows the trend I'm starting to see amongst the tributes, she's probably some kind of crazy. Also, she knows who I am and specifically sought me out—that's more than a bit suspicious. "So . . ." I cross my arms defensively and analyse her up and down. "You wanted to—"

"_Just _talk," she says through gritted teeth. Another glare is thrown Elegance's way. "She thinks it's _so_ funny to twist people's words. I hope you aren't falling for her act," she continues, glancing back at me. "You know she's flirted with every guy that's walked in here."

"I'm not surprised. Nor am I stupid."

"You'd be surprised how many are. Most of these idiots are lapping it up."

I glance over at Elegance and, sure enough, she's already surrounded by a small pack of admirers. The Two boy smiles widely in front of her as he recounts some dramatic story that requires a lot of sweeping gestures and ridiculous expressions; meanwhile, the Ten boy and Elegance "watch", but not really—their attention seems to be mostly focused on their flirty body language. Behind the pair stands Elegance's district partner, looking incredibly out of place with an expression of mild discomfort, as though he's the girl's awkward bodyguard.

Something about the scene—the whole atmosphere of the room, actually—strikes me as off. I don't realise what it is until my eyes sweep the room once more. "This is so weird . . ."

Elanie raises an eyebrow. "What is?"

"This." I gesture around the room, glancing from Elegance and her posse to the pair from 4 whispering together to the 2 girl idly folding paper airplanes out of magazine pages. "They're so _calm_. I mean, jeez, we might as well be at a summer camp. What's wrong with everyone? Where's the fear? Doesn't everyone know what we're here for?"

"Of course they do," Elanie snaps. "We all heard the announcement. Thinking about it doesn't exactly help though." Her expression is harsh, her words sharp, but I've got a feeling that's spurred on, not by anger at me, but fear of what's to come. "Besides," she continues, softer now. "Most people don't believe the Capitol's going to go through with it."

"You do." It's not a question; I can see the worry in her eyes.

"Obviously. There's no way they would spend this much time on a bluff. You know it's true too, don't you?"

Admittedly, I hate thinking about it—but, "Yeah." I sigh. "I also know I'm likely not making it out of this alive. Not with what I've done."

Something flashes across Elanie's face, so quickly I can barely pinpoint it—eagerness, maybe? "Right," she says, and it's impossible to miss the fervour in her tone. "You worked on the rebels' radio show, yes? Operated the equipment?"

"Uh, yeah."

"So you're highly skilled with radio tech then? Good." She takes a deep breath. "I need your help with something.

Immediately, I'm back on guard. A casual chat, I can deal with, but I'm not stupid. The rules of the Hunger Games state one out of twenty-four of us can live, and as calm as everyone is reacting to this, it's evident some people are already knee-deep in the game. Elegance has obviously already started playing, making connections with any tribute who will fall under her spell. She's lowering their guard, ensuring they won't kill her and blinding them to the fact that she'd murder them in the blink of an eye. They're being reduced to nothing but gullible sitting ducks.

Who's to say Elanie isn't using the same technique?

My mouth hardens in a firm line; sure, I'm probably doomed in these Games anyways, but no way I'm going to roll over and let some girl take advantage of me. "I should probably go check on my district partner," I say quickly, already taking a step away from Elanie. "She gets lonely easily."

Elanie may not be a Threek, but she's not stupid like a lot of outer-district people; she catches on immediately. "You don't trust me."

"In a week's time, we're all going to be tossed in an arena to kill each other. People can ignore it or refuse to obey the Capitol's wishes all they want—some tributes are clearly preparing already."

Elanie catches my glance at Elegance and turns to the charismatic girl before looking incredulously back at me. "You think I'm like her? How could you . . . I'm _nothing _like that, that . . ." She curls her lip in disgust. "You know what, fine. Whatever. But I'll have you know, I am _not _trying to take advantage of you, nor am I trying to get ahead in these Games. I'm just as doomed as you are, which is why there are things I need to do before my rapidly approaching death. I don't want an ally, I don't want a follower, and I sure as hell don't want some kind of gullible slave like that One girl does—I just want a co-worker. Our relationship doesn't even need to extend into the arena."

My expression must still look suspicious, because she throws her hands up in defeat. "I'm not stupid," she says, and the tone of her voice, weary and let down, nearly makes me feel guilty. "I know nothing I say could ever convince you to trust me. That's not how trust works. But my offer still stands, if you come around. I could really use your help."

She starts to move away, but I still catch her murmured last words. "Besides, it might be nice not to spend your last days alive entirely friendless."

I stare after her, surprise replacing the suspicion on my face. I mean, she may not be trustworthy, but she seems smart; she knows friends can't possibly be an option here. Only one out of the twenty-four of us is coming out alive, after all—any friendships made would be pointless because they wouldn't last. Why befriend someone if we'll both be dead soon anyways?

_Then again, _a quiet voice pipes up in the back of my head, _why _not_ befriend someone if we'll both be dead soon anyways?_

* * *

><p><strong>VITUS AQUILA, 16, DISTRICT 2 MALE<strong>

"—went all the way to the end of the track!" I laugh, fond memories surfacing of the time one of my work friends took an unplanned ride in one of the rickety old carts in our mine. "Nearly fell out and died a million times, he told us. Of course the overseers were furious, but in the end he said it was worth it. He's got a great story to tell at least, eh?"

I grin at Glamour and Sable, the boys from 1 and 10, respectively. Neither looks thoroughly invested in the adventure I was recounting; Glamour is still staring straight ahead like a soldier awaiting orders, and Sable hasn't taken his eyes off Elegance since she left to greet the tributes from 8.

Finally, the boy from 10 realises I've stopped talking and waves a hand. "Sure, whatever. Honestly, kid, I haven't heard a word you've said. More important things to focus on."

"No worries, I get it." I don't think he hears me though; the shaky boy from 8 has managed to peel himself away from Elegance's clinging grasp, leaving her alone by the door, and Sable is already striding over to resume their flirting.

I get what he sees in her; I mean, she is really attractive. Beautiful, even. Personally though, she's almost _too_ perfect for my tastes, with her high, defined cheekbones and full, red lips. I'm used to the girls from 2, built bigger and stronger with wind-chafed skin and lopsided grins. Not that there's anything wrong with Elegance's doll-esque looks—just not my thing.

Also, she apparently poisoned a whole bunch of Capitolites when they invaded 1 during the war, which isn't good. She seems nice enough though.

"So, just the two of us now, eh?" I smile and elbow Glamour. His eyes flicker over to me, but otherwise, he doesn't say anything. Not much of a talker, this one. Then again, I haven't given him much opportunity to participate in the conversation. "So what's new with you?"

He frowns, almost confused, but whether he actually intended to respond or not, I'll never know; at that moment, the last tributes to arrive, the pair from 12, stumble into the room, followed by a prim-looking Capitolite woman in a business suit.

"All right, everyone gather around," she calls out. "Come on, make sure you can all see me. Short ones in the front, tall ones in the back."

Immediately, Glamour straightens and practically marches over to the woman. He's one of the only ones that does so; most of the other tributes look ready to fight back or argue, until the appearance of Peacekeepers on either side of the woman causes them to think better of it. _Those would be the rebels, _I think as two Peacekeepers practically drag the pair from 6 over to the Capitolite. _The kids tributes from 2 are supposed to kill. _According to the videos, at least. I have to admit, though, none of these guys look nearly as ugly as the rebels on TV.

Not wanting to cause a fuss, I hurry over to stand beside Glamour; while I may have a slighter build, I am only about an inch shorter than him. There are smaller kids still behind us though: the little twelve-year-old from 6 stays glued to his district partner while both the scrawny boys from 5 and 8 keep to the edges of the crowd. The two from 4 are also at the back, and I know they definitely can't see a thing behind the hulking form of the girl from 10.

"Hey," I whisper softly to them, stepping to the side. "Want my spot? You could see better."

Both of them glance at me, expressions neutral for a moment before the boy glares furiously. Dark bruises surround both his angry brown eyes. "You the guy from 2?" he spits.

"Yep."

"Fuck off."

Well, okay then. Maybe someone else would like my spot instead.

Before I can ask around though, the Capitolite up front clears her throat and prepares to speak. Not wanting to disturb anyone, I quickly close my mouth to listen.

"First off, I want to let you all know that interruptions of any sort are _not _tolerated. Break this rule and you will be escorted out of the room, meaning you will lose valuable information about upcoming events." She glares around the circle of tributes. "Some of you have already had lessons on listening. Do not make the Peacekeepers teach you again."

Her gaze seems to linger on a few particular individuals. The boy from 4 with the two black eyes crosses his arms and glowers furiously at the floor. The girl from 6 smirks despite her puffy, swollen lip. Someone moaned quietly when the word "lessons" was spoken—might've been the guy from 8.

After a moment of silence during which no one speaks, the woman nods. "Good. Now, my name is Vibya Elestrine and I will be leading you for this phase of the Hunger Games. After today, you will be briefed by Daelianne Botterwurth and Yoriq Chentanko, the directors of this event. You may simply refer to them as your Head Gamemakers."

_Head Gamemakers. Sounds legit. _I smile, wanting to ask Glamour what he thinks so far, but he's completely focused on the woman's words. I should be to, come to think of it.

"This building is referred to as the Training Centre. You will be staying here during your time in the Capitol, both to rest and to prepare for the Hunger Games. As you all have heard, you will have three days to train yourselves both mentally and physically before you enter the arena. However, you also know the Games begin in six days. I understand this may have caused some confusion amongst you."

I do remember our escort mentioning something similar back on the train. My district partner questioned him relentlessly about it, but all he kept saying was she would have her explanation when she got to the Capitol. I wasn't too worried though; I'm sure things will work out.

"It is not only training that will take place before the Games. Along the way there are a series of smaller events—perhaps it will help to think of them as 'mini-games'." The woman smiles humourlessly. "Perform well in these events and you will earn rewards. Perform poorly and there will be consequences."

She lets those ominous words hang in the air for a few moments before continuing, "The first event will take place tonight. It is known as the chariot race."

I perk up immediately; closer to the front of the crowd, I see Aelia does the same. Does Vibya really mean—?

"Each pair of district partners will be placed in a chariot. One will steer, the other will hold a large lance with which to knock opponents out of the way. All in the name of harmless fun, of course." The woman's expression leads me to believe she's really hoping it isn't harmless, but I'm barely paying attention to the sadistic glint in her eyes, too focused on her words. "The first team to finish their lap of the City Circle wins."

She lapses into silence, allowing the crowd of kids to murmur amongst themselves. Some look surprised, others even a bit scared; most, however, wear the same angry glares they had at the beginning of the speech. No one looks even the tiniest bit excited—what's wrong with them? Do they not have this in other districts?

"Hey," I whisper, nudging Glamour. "You have chariot racing in One?"

His attention is still fully focused on the Capitolite, and for a second I think he won't answer, until I hear a quiet, grunted, "No."

"So you haven't done this before?"

"I have."

Oh. Okay . . . I frown for a moment, confused, but I decide not to press the issue. After all, I've just found another racer! We can talk about technique, strategies, prior races; man, I could go on about this for days "So," I say, grinning. "You think you've got what it takes to win?"

The strangest thing happens. Like my words are an electric shock to Glamour's system, he straightens immediately, his arms stiffening at his sides. "Yes, sir."

Is this a joke? One humour, maybe? I laugh tentatively. "Well, no need for the 'sir' . . ."

Glamour blinks slowly, once, twice, like a guy waking up from a dream that seemed too real. Maybe this wasn't a joke, but then, what's up with him? I open my mouth to ask what's wrong, but before I can, something distracts me and all the other whispering tributes.

The girl from 12, who stands at the front of the crowd, waves her raised hand in the air. The Capitolite looks down her nose at the tribute. "Aloi Ematraseam. You have a question?"

"Yes, glad you finally noticed." The woman's glare hardens, but Aloi Ematraseam doesn't seem to care. "You haven't told us the most important part yet. What exactly do we get if we win the chariot race? A trophy? A cake? Bragging rights? It better not just be bragging rights—"

"Of course," the woman swiftly cuts her off. "How silly of me to forget. Tributes, this way."

She turns on her heel and strides out the gym door, hesitantly followed by about half of the kids here. The other half get going once the Peacekeepers close in around them.

Somehow, as we all try to shuffle through the doors, Aelia winds up at my side. I give my district partner a glance out of the corner of my eye. We didn't exactly get off to the best start; I mean, she didn't seem to understand why I volunteered and I didn't really get why she didn't want to help 2 and the Capitol in their mission to eradicate remaining volunteers. It's too bad, really—she's seems like a cool girl.

The possibility of friendship might not be entirely screwed though, as she speaks to me for the first time since last night. "So, chariot races."

"Yep. You excited?"

"I've told you before, idiot, how could I be excited about any of this? We are here to _die_, remember? Besides, chariot racing is dangerous, we could get hurt or killed before we even reach the arena—"

"Yeah, you're excited." I smile, catching the glimmer of eagerness in her eyes. She can try to hide it behind a mask of cynicism all she likes; no Twovian can resist the allure of chariot races. It's our district's primary sport. "You ever raced before?"

"No," she snaps, maybe a bit miffed I saw through her façade so quickly. Then, relenting, she adds, "Once or twice. A few times. Not competitively. But, ah, I was one of the best drivers under sixteen back in my town."

"Really? That's awesome!" I slap her on the back; maybe we have more in common than I'd thought. "We'll make a fantastic team then, you driving and me on the offensive."

"You work with the lance?"

"Yep. Got my team to the district-wide competition five years in a row. Not to brag or anything." I grin. "This is going to be so awesome."

"You do know how dangerous this is, right?"

"All fun stuff is dangerous."

"You're a total idiot, you know that? Just like my friend Mark." And yet, I can see the corners of her mouth twitching upwards.

I pat her on the back again as we follow the Capitolite woman down to the elevators. See, I knew this would be great! No offense to the rest of these kids, but chariot racing is 2's thing; we're going to kick their butts. Man, I signed up for this to help my family and the Capitol and everything, but I never thought it'd be this much fun doing it. I should have guessed it; I mean, what else do you expect from something called the Hunger Games?

I knew this was the best decision I've ever made.

* * *

><p><strong>ALOI EMATRASEAM, 15, DISTRICT 12<strong>

Someone should be fired from their job as an architect. I mean, seriously, twenty-four of us are going to be living here and they only put _one _elevator in? I sigh, drumming my fingers impatiently. Why am I the only intelligent one in this world?

"Um, Aloi? Could you, uh . . ." William turns around, impeding me from continuing to tap my fingers on his back.

I frown and twirl one finger in his face. "Back around, Winston. I need to let out some impatience."

"Actually, it's . . . never mind." At least Wharton isn't entirely a dunce and seems to have realised correcting my use of the wrong name won't do any good; I honestly couldn't care less who he is or what he calls himself.

With a quiet sigh, he turns back and lets me resume drumming my fingers on the back of his shirt. It'd be better if I could do it on his shoulders or head, but he's ridiculously tall for a thirteen-year-old, and I have a feeling he'd take it the wrong way if I told him to get on his knees. I tried that with Dawson once and the _outburst_ that followed, you wouldn't believe. I swear that boy's face was red for a week after.

If only he were here with me; incompetent as he was, he'd be better company than these weirdos. I glance around at the five kids around me. Because of the idiot who only decided to put one elevator in this building, we've had to go up in groups of ten, six tributes and four Peacekeepers crammed into the tiny compartment. Currently waiting down here with me, besides my pushover district partner, are the tributes from 11 and 10, none of which are any more impressive than Wilbur. First off, there's Kyle or Kenny, the crazy nut with the tangled black curls, and his partner, Amelia, the girl in the tacky checkered dress. While we're on the subject of _tacky, _let's talk about the girl from 10, who's wearing a hideous plaid shirt and (shudder) _overalls. _The guy, Sam or Simpson or something, is hardly better, leaning against the wall and doing his best to look cool, but in _those _boots? Yeah, don't think so, buddy.

_Finally _the elevator _ding_s, and the doors slide open, allowing us to pile in. I'm stuck uncomfortably between my district partner and one of the Peacekeepers, who pushes the third of fourteen buttons on the control pad.

A squeak of shock comes from both Warren and the tributes from 11; even I can't hide my awe, watching the ground shoot away from us as the glass elevator rises. I've never ridden in anything like this before, and, despite making me a bit sick to my stomach, the feeling is incredible. I might as well be flying.

Way too soon, the ride is done, and I can't help but feel a bit disappointed as the elevator _ding_s once more. That was one of the best things the Capitol had to offer so far—

Oh gosh. Oh, oh wow.

At the front of the crowd of assembled tributes, the Capitolite smirks as we exit the elevator. "Does this answer your question, Ms. Ematraseam?"

This place—it's _beautiful_. The floor is carpeted with lush red carpet, the oaken walls trimmed with gold curlicues that fit together in an intricate pattern. Marble statues line the hallway and behind them, beautiful watercolours of landscapes hang. Up above, an elaborate golden chandelier rests, each arm carved as a gleaming, thorny vine, each red candle sculpted into a delicate, flaming rose.

I want to faint. Never before have I seen such beauty; goodness knows District 12 is a dump, but I bet this place makes even 1 look destitute. Those polished doorknobs, thin and elegantly wrought—I've died and gone to heaven.

"If you win, this floor is yours for the week," the Capitolite woman says, leading us down the hall; Wallace has to prod me out of my trance before I start walking. "Everything is state of the art; there is even a small exercise room for those of you who want to continue your training after the gym has closed."

She opens the nearest door to reveal sky blue walls and a sleek grey floor nearly invisible beneath all the exercise equipment. Sure, it looks fancy, and all the macho boys are probably salivating over it, but I'm far more interested in the curtains. Are they mulberry silk? I thought places like this only existed in dreams.

"The higher you go, the less perks each floor has," the Capitolite continues, turning our attention away from the exercise room, "Right up to the twelfth floor, which is more of a prison cell than anything else. I doubt we need a tour of there—surely most of you can picture it." Her smile is nasty as she makes eye contact with each of the tributes. This draws a reaction from many of the tributes—boy from 4 glares, girl from 6 smirks, boy from 8 whimpers—but when she gets to me, I give her an innocentshrug. Hey, I've never gone to jail before, apparently unlike most of these savages.

"So as you can see, it is in your best interests to come out on top in the chariot races. Let's continue our tour."

She moves off and the tributes reluctantly follow. I grab Winston by the shoulder before he can get too far away and pull him back towards me.

"What?" he says nervously as we hang back at the edge of the crowd.

"Have you ever done a chariot race before?"

"What? Of course not—does that kind of thing even happen in Twelve?"

Admittedly no, but I'm still disappointed. "Right. Well then, we'd best start talking strategy now."

"S-strategy? What do you mean?"

"I _mean _we are going to win this race and this floor." Why, why does my district partner have to be a complete dunce? The universe is testing me. "Now, you're younger, but bigger, and you look more wild. It'll be more intimidating if you hold the lance and I steer. Besides, I still haven't entirely recovered."

I rub my left arm unconsciously, feeling the bumps raised by burns from the reaping day fire. The skin still feels tight, but I can move it pretty normally. Thank goodness I'd gotten out of there before more serious damage had been dealt.

Or rather, thank goodness Dawson had gotten me out of there. I was incredibly surprised when I woke up during my goodbyes to find that not only had I been reaped for these Hunger Games, but Dawson had been the one to save me from the fire. Somehow, he had managed to come back and drag me away before the Peacekeeper open-fired with his flamethrower. I suppose that's why I've finally started using his real name; he's earned it. Also, it's kind of nice to say: Dawson. I might not have much longer to think of my old assistant; might as well use what time I have left to think of him properly.

I shake my head, trying to clear away the image of the olive-skinned, dark-haired, kind-eyed boy._ Not time to be thinking about that, Aloi. Besides, it's not like you're never going to see him again. This Hunger Games thing is all a ridiculous prank, obviously. You'll go home soon. You won't die. You can't._

Right?

* * *

><p><strong>GLAMOUR SUMPTAIOUS, 18, DISTRICT 1<strong>

"And that concludes our tour. Follow the Peacekeepers back to the elevators. They will escort you back to the ground floor and out to the bus that will take you to the Preparation Centre, where you will prepare for the chariot race."

As always, I'm one of the first to follow the Capitolite woman's orders and find myself packed into the elevator with four Peacekeepers, my district partner and the tributes from 11 and 9. Once we get down to the lobby, however, Elegance pulls me to the side, away from the crowd.

"So," she whispers quietly, glancing at the other tributes. "How do you feel about our competition?"

I shift on my feet; it's strange, but Elegance makes me uneasy. For one thing, I feel like I don't know the real her yet—she adopts a different personality every time she meets someone new. For another, she knew I'd been trained for the Games the moment we stepped onto the train together. I don't know how she guessed, but it worries me; the man with the black eyes told me it was supposed to be a secret. She promised she wouldn't tell anyone, but now I feel like I owe her something, and I don't like that at all. Especially considering she might be one of the rebels I'm supposed to take down in the Hunger Games.

"Well?" she asks impatiently as the elevator returns, this time bearing the tributes from 8, 10 and 3. "Do you think you can kill them all or not?"

I nearly say, "Yes, sir." It's become a habit after six months of answering every question in that fashion, and it's hard to push the reflex down. I already slipped up once today with Vitus.

"Yes," I say, though I don't sound positive—mostly because I'm wondering whether I should add "ma'am" onto the end of my answer.

Elegance clearly isn't happy with my response. "You don't seem very sure," she says, narrowing her eyes. "Haven't you ever killed someone before?"

"Of course I have." It was a vital part of my training.

The elevator _ding_s once more as Elegance looks me up and down, as though she's trying to figure out if I'm lying. I'm not, though.

Then why do I feel like I kind of am?

Finally, the elevator drops off the last of the tributes and we're escorted to the small bus waiting out front. Elegance leaves me to rejoin the boy from 10, but I don't mind; until I climb up into the bus and realise there's only twelve seats in here. They're forcing us to sit with someone, and there's already one or two kids at each seat.

My palms start to sweat; I don't do well in these kinds of situations. Automatically, my gaze goes to my district partner, but of course she's already sitting with Sable. Vitus is with his district partner at the back of the bus, both of them enthusiastically whispering to each other. No one else I know, and most of them are rebels, people I shouldn't be associating myself with. Where do I go, where do I—?

"Oi, One! Quit holding up the line," the girl from 10 barks behind me. I flinch, mentally berating myself for not immediately following orders, and quickly slide into the nearest seat, where a scrawny, brown-haired boy also sits.

Glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, I place him as Mack Ramaye, the boy from 8. _Of all people . . ._ I don't know why, but something about this kid has been unnerving me since I watched his reaping last night. The answer feels so obvious, like it's on the tip of my tongue, but I just can't seem to grasp it.

He happens to look up and meets my gaze, his brown eyes wide and wary. He's hyperventilating slightly as well, I notice, and the realisation only reinforces the weirdness around this boy. I can't get over the fact that he seems so _familiar_.

Mack looks away, then back at me, taking deep breaths to try and calm himself. "Um, h-hi. I'm M-Mack Ramaye. From-from 8."

My eyes widen immediately. That voice—I know that voice.

_We come to a stop outside one of many unmarked doors in the long, dingy hallway. I've done this so many times that at this point, I don't ask questions, just outstretch my hand for the weapon._

_The man whose eyes are entirely black raises an eyebrow in amusement. "Oh, you'll be unarmed for this one, Glamour. Trust me, your hands will be enough."_

_I retract my outstretched palm, a hint of hesitance flashing across my face. I've never killed without a weapon before. "What am I supposed to do?"_

"_Suffocate him, strangle him, claw into his chest until you reach his heart. Be creative." The man's expression changes instantly from eager to stern. "Your training has taught you all of this, has it not? I hope you aren't going to fail me now."_

"_No, sir." Yet even as I say it, my hands clench nervously into fists. Even chained like they are, the rebel soldiers I've been ordered to kill fought viciously. I don't like the idea of taking one on unarmed._

_The man in charge must notice my wariness, but surprisingly, I'm not punished for it. All he does is grins. "Don't worry so much, Glamour. This one won't be putting up much of a fight."_

_He taps a few buttons on the electronic pad beside the door and a portion of the wall goes translucent, showing us a view of the cell on the other side. It's a one-way effect so prisoners can't see out, but even if that wasn't the case, it wouldn't matter in this instance. The rebel within isn't looking in our direction._

_The cell itself is no different than the dozen others I've visited. Cold, grey walls and a cold grey floor, though this is difficult to see under the bloodstains. Some look older, almost brown, but others still bear a fresh, redder tint. There are more of them than in the last cell I visited, but it makes sense. The longer the soldier is in Capitol captivity, the more they're tortured for information. Even after the war, this process hasn't stopped, just slowed; the Capitol is still worried their enemies are lying in wait rather than having surrendered._

_The only piece of furniture in the cell is the small, steel bed bolted to the corner of the room. There's no mattress, just a spider web of springs and four chains connected to each of the bedposts; their other ends are shackled to the ankles and wrists of the rebel lodged in the tiny cell._

_I stare at him, a strange, uncomfortable feeling welling up in my stomach that's never been present before. The soldier has curled himself into a ball, head buried in his knees, seemingly oblivious to the taut restraints digging into his skin. I can't see any features besides a mess of tangled brown hair, but his thin, small frame and the youthful (albeit unhealthy) quality of his skin leads me to believe he's just a kid. Definitely no older than I am._

"_Yes, you'll have no problem with this one," the man beside me says, snickering as he watches the boys shoulders tremble._

"_Then, sir . . ." I pause, knowing it's not right of me to question my superiors. Yet something pushes me to continue, "Sir, if he doesn't fight, what exactly is the, ah, the point? Am I not being trained in battle?"_

_The man frowns, and I fight the urge to cower under his stare; I've crossed a line. "You're being trained so you can kill twenty-three teenagers. Not all of them will have it in them to fight you. Some will seem weak, vulnerable, pitiable. You have to take those ones out too. Or is that too much to ask?"_

"_No, sir." Idiot, I shouldn't have challenged him. What would my father say?_

_Yet as the man goes to open the door, I find myself fighting the urge to ask more questions, offer more reasons as to why I shouldn't be doing this. I don't know why—I mean, I've killed a dozen rebels before. But then, it was almost like I was fighting for my life; they'd throw punches, kicks, even try to bite and scratch me as I went in for the kill. This is different. This is . . . is this wrong?_

What did you superior tell you to do? _my father's voice rings in my head. _Obey him, always obey him.

_So when the door slides open, I step through, raising my hands and preparing to kill._

_The boy still doesn't look up, but he does react to the door opening; body trembling worse than ever, he curls himself into a tighter ball, shoulders heaving with the force of his sobs. I find myself acutely aware of his red-stained uniform, torn in so many places to reveal gashes and bruises in his skin, joints still swollen from past breaks, burns marks from fire and electricity. _

No, don't focus on that. Just go kill him.

_I only take one step before I stop, though. At the sound of my footstep, the boy's sobs go into hysterical overdrive, his body shaking so much the whole bed trembles. "Please," comes the quiet whimper from his hidden lips, then louder, "Please, please, not again. I don't know anything, I swear."_

_The moans are low and have a heart-wrenchingly hopeless quality to them. It's as though the boy has tried this before and knows his words will do nothing to stop me. He's already given up._

_I take another step, inducing another fit of shuddering in the boy. Still, he doesn't look up._

"_P-p-p-please . . ."_

_His voice is so quiet and stuttered I have to strain my ears to hear it. No, I shouldn't be pausing to listen; I'm supposed to be over there finishing my job. Clenching my fists firmly and trying to pump determination through my veins, I take another step._

"_P-p-please, j-j-just . . . oh Panem, just k-k-kill m-me."_

_Did I hear right? He's actually giving me permission to carry out my orders. The man with the black eyes was right; unlike other times, this one will be no problem._

_So why can't I take another step? I'm standing in the middle of the cell, unable to move when it should be the easiest thing in the world to walk over to the bed and wrap my hands around the rebel's neck. I doubt he'd even resist. Why am I not doing it?_

_My heart is telling me there's something wrong about this; my mind is screaming about obedience in my father's voice. This is a rebel soldier in front of me, a vicious anarchist, an enemy. Or is it a starving, tortured boy, a poor kid, someone who could never be considered a threat? I shuffle from one foot to the other, unable to think, unable to make a decision. I feel like I'm being torn in two._

_A quiet _beep _breaks through the sobbing of the boy; behind me, I can hear the door slide open. Before I can think, someone's grabbing my shoulders, dragging me out of the room—no! It's the man with the black eyes, I'm sure of it, and I've _failed _him. What does this mean for me?_

_Yet as the cell door slides shut, I turn and realise it's not my boss behind me, but one of the other lab coat workers. He's breathing heavily, running a hand through his sweaty red hair and murmuring, "Thank God we averted that disaster."_

_He lets out a sigh of relief, but it's short-lived; the man with black eyes storms up to him, leaning in close so their noses nearly touch. "Care to tell me," he says in a dangerously quiet tone I've come to fear, "What the fuck that was?"_

_The man with the red hair swallows nervously, but sets his lips in a firm scowl. I've come to realise there are two types of lab coats working on Project Hunger Games: those who follow the black-eyed man, and those who follow the blue-haired woman. This new arrival is one of the latter._

"_I take it you haven't checked your messages, _sir_." That's all I've ever called the man with the black eyes, and while I do it as a mark of respect, I have a feeling the red-headed lab coat doesn't intend it as such. "The president has ordered all captured soldiers to be returned home, as a gesture of goodwill to the districts. Unfortunately, thanks to your "training" exercises, we have very few left. This boy needs to stay alive."_

_My boss scoffs. "I didn't authorise this. Who gave the president these orders?"_

_The man with the red hair narrows his eyes. "You don't need to authorise anything—your power doesn't extend beyond the Games, remember? And no one needs to give the president orders. For God's sake, he's the _president_."_

"_Bullshit. That fool would never come up with a command like this on his own." The red-head gasps at the insult and sputters incoherently, but my boss presses on, "This was Daelianne's idea, wasn't it? That sneaky little minx."_

"_Watch how you address her," the other says sharply. "If you must know, she and Mr. Hausler did have a conversation, but this was entirely his decision."_

"_Of course it was." The man with the black eyes has pulled away now and, curiously enough, is smiling. "Well then, I suppose there's nothing we can do. Run along, Glamour, back to your room. We'll resume your training shortly. In the meantime, I've got to have a little chat with my co-worker."_

I can't remember a moment where I'd ever felt more relieved. It was wrong, I know; I shouldn't have been happy to have orders retracted, I should have simply carried them out. For the six months I was in the Capitol, I always did—right up until the incident with the rebel soldier. Who I know realise is Mack Ramaye.

The boy seems put off by my silence and is now staring out the window, fingers fidgeting nervously in his lap. I don't see how I missed it before; same messy brown hair, same pallid skin and sickly gauntness. He's bundled up in pants and a large sweater, but the same scars are no doubt present on his tortured body. I can't believe it took me so long to realise who he was.

It makes me nervous, him being here. I completed all of my training flawlessly, including killing a dozen rebel soldiers as practice for the arena. Yet I never killed Mack Ramaye. True, that was partly due to the lab coat's interference, but still . . .

Every day since, I've asked myself: what would have happened if the red-headed man hadn't come? Could I have killed the soldier, as pathetic and pitiable as he was? Could I have killed Mack Ramaye?

I've never been able to come up with an answer. Now, though, I suppose I'll find out.

I don't know how I feel about that.

* * *

><p><strong>ANNE EMONY, 16, DISTRICT 4<strong>

As soon as we arrive at the Preparation Centre, we're all escorted off the bus and into the tall, imposing building. Once we enter a long hallway with countless identical doors, they start separating us. The girl from 1 is sent into the first room, the boy from her district marches into the one on the opposite side of the door and so on until I realise Hal and I are next.

"Hold on a second," I say nervously as a Peacekeeper takes my arm. They won't actually take me away from Hal, will they? No, I can't be alone again! "Wait, wait, wait!"

"You'll be fine, Anne," Hal mutters to me as Peacekeepers grab him too. Is it just me or does he look embarrassed? "Just stay calm and stick it to the Capitol."

What kind of advice is that? "Hal, Hal, please stay with me." I try to reach out to him, but the Peacekeepers have gripped my other arm too, dragging me away from my partner and towards the door on the right. "Hal!"

The door is flung open and I'm thrown in none-too gently. My head knocks painfully against the floor, but I'm up in a flash, frantically twisting the doorknob. It's already been locked. "No, no, Hal! Hal!" I pound on the door, ceasing my shouts every so often to strain my ears for a response. I can't hear anything though. "Hal, Hal, Hal!"

"FYI, this room is soundproof. They made a lot of accommodations for all you crazies."

I whirl around to face the room, chest heaving erratically. At first, I see no one, but then the large, plush chair facing the window opposite me revolves, revealing a short, skinny woman relaxing casually into the cushions.

My guard is still raised, but my heartbeat slows. Sure, this woman isn't my district partner, but—thank Panem—at least I'm not alone. "Who're you?"

"Genine Forenzo. I'm in charge of preparing you for tonight's race."

"How are you going to that?"

"Depends. Are you steering the chariot or using the lance?"

Despite not wanting to go along with the Capitol's plans, Hal and I had discussed this on the bus. He decided he'd be a better offensive. Besides, I've had experience driving boats with my father; can it really be that different? "Steering."

Genine grabs a book from the coffee table in front of her and hurls it at me. "There. Read it. Or don't bother. There's no way you're going to pick it up in a few hours."

I glance at the manual I've caught in my hands. On the front is a picture of two racers zooming across an arena in a chariot of pure gold. _This is all instructions? _The book feels like it weighs a ton. I flip through it, scanning pages full of diagrams, lists and hideously graphic illustrations of what might happen if you do something wrong. Seems like this chariot racing is more deadly than the Hunger Games.

I come to another page of two racers falling out of their chariot and throw my hands up with a sigh. "If it's impossible to master this so quickly, why is this even an event?"

Genine is picking at her long, emerald green nails, not even looking at me, but she does snort at my words. "Because some of you have already mastered it."

My grip tightens on the manual. _The pair from 2_—of course_. _I've heard chariots are their equivalent of boat racing. "That's not fair. They've got a huge advantage."

"They were also the only ones who fought on our side during the war. I'd say they've earned it. Unlike _some_."

Tense silence fills the room as Genine and I glare at each. Hal would want me to rage, yell at her, but I've never been able to express my hate in that fashion. I'm all about cold fury, and it seems Genine is too.

Surprisingly though, just when I'm sure one of us is about to pop a blood vessel from glaring so hard, her expression reverts to bored neutrality and she shrugs. "Whatever. I don't care if you win or not, so don't go looking to me for sympathy. By the way, when you're finished with the manual, put that on, will you?"

She gestures to the couch at one end of the room, on which some bizarre, bright orange fabric rests. Frowning, I take a step towards it and dump the manual on the cushions, reaching both hands towards the material.

_Oh no. You've _got_ to be kidding me._

I hold the thing out in front of me, staring in a mixture of disgust, anger and maybe even a little bit of horror. "What is _this?"_

Before me is a fish suit. Garishly orange and covered in scales, it's as tall as I am, with a ridiculous hood depicting the face of a lazy-eyed fish staring in two opposite directions. Where sleeves should be are these enormous flippers, and the bottom looks like an uncomfortably tight skirt, ending in another set of fins. It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen.

"It's your costume for the races tonight," Genine says lazily. "Everyone has one."

"Like _this_?"

"Of course not. Only the kids from Four are fish."

I turn to stare at her incredulously. "_Why_?"

"Because you're the fishing industry. Did all that time on the island fry your brain?"

I'm so angry, her words don't even hurt. This is _appalling_. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to feel patriotic, but the sensation engulfs me now. My father always took great pride in being from Four: we're the captains of the seas, the tamers of the deep, suppliers of beautiful treasures like pearls and shells. To reduce us to simply "the fishing district" is an enormous mark of disrespect.

I glare at Genine. "I won't wear this."

She doesn't react to the anger in my voice. "Doesn't matter. You've got no choice."

"This is a hideous, insulting parody of my district."

"Obviously. What did you think the purpose of costumes was?"

Her words send a spark of confusion through my anger. My eyes narrow. "What is the purpose?"

"Crazy and stupid. Boy, I really picked a winner when I said I'd make the girl from 4's outfit." I open my mouth, enraged to realise this woman is responsible for this monstrosity, but before I can, she continues, "You're not just here to die, you understand? If that was the only point, hell, we'd just shoot you back in your district and be done with it. You are here to be _humiliated._ A simple beating won't quell another uprising. You drive someone into the dirt, they only want to get back up and shove you down. You have to make them _want _to stay in the ground, want to hide their faces in deep, dark holes and never emerge to challenge you again. Pain and death only go so far, girl. Degradation and shame, those will keep your enemies down for life."

Genine has risen to her chair and walked over until our faces are inches apart. Even though she's almost a good foot shorter than I am, I'm unable to suppress the unconscious urge to take a step back. My foot hits the couch, and, sensing my imbalance, Genine reaches out and shoves me with surprising strength for someone so small. She looms over me as I fall hard onto the sofa.

"You still have no idea, do you?" she says as I glare up at her. Genine snickers humourlessly. "The Hunger Games aren't just a physical torture. It's all psychological. Your body can heal, but once your mind breaks, there's no going back. A dead person? They can become a martyr. A crazy one? No one wants to associate themselves with those types." Genine leans in close, smirking. "But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? Tell me, do you really think your precious district partner would still be with you if he had _anyone_ else to talk to?"

The attack on my sanity hurts, but I square my jaw and reply all the same, "Yes."

She laughs. "I suppose we'll see. Training begins tomorrow, when you'll get to really know all the other little rebels. Sure he won't find a better, less crazy friend?"

I continue to glare resolutely back at her. "Hal wouldn't do that."

. . . Would he?

I can tell Genine sees the worry in my eyes thanks to the spark of victory that lights hers. "Keep telling yourself that. In the meantime, put on the fish costume. Don't make me get the Peacekeepers."


	9. All Fun Stuff is Dangerous

_**First off - meant to say this last chapter but totally forgot - this story has hit 1000 views! It feels like a milestone, so I just wanted to say thank you much to everyone who's been reading so far! Big thanks to everyone who's favourited, followed and reviewed as well! I really appreciate it!**_

_**Also meant to say this last chapter, but if you're looking for another Hunger Games story to read, check out **The 64th Anual Hunger Games: The Echoing of the Cannon SYOT** by coleto98. I believe it's a closed SYOT, but you should definitely still check it out :)**_

_**Without further ado, hope you enjoy this chapter! The chariots are the event that starts out the most different, so it was a somewhat difficult but interesting chapter to write :)**_

* * *

><p><strong>SABLE BRANDMERE, 17, DISTRICT 10<strong>

I _was_ going to put up a fight before getting into my costume—I mean, a rooster outfit? _Hell _no.

But, as my self-proclaimed "stylist" so eloquently put it, there were Peacekeepers waiting right outside the doors itching for a reason to roughhouse with the "district scum". While I may have my pride, a death wish I do not possess—nor do I like getting hurt for nothing but a futile cause. So I swallowed my dignity and stepped into the chicken suit.

I had another reason for obeying quickly though. I'd figured if I dressed fast enough and skimmed the chariot manual, I could be the first one down to the "loading dock", as my stylist called it. Which meant I'd get some time alone with the—

"Horses," I breathe as I exit the elevator to the bottom floor of the Preparation Centre, which is essentially one giant stable. The chariots are all lined up in a row, and in front of each are a team of two lean, muscular stallions. Their coats differ for every district—golden, chestnut, dapple grey—but each animal possesses the same aura of fierce strength and order. Not one wavers from its position.

It's easy enough to tell which chariot is 10's: third last in the row, painted up to resemble a barn. I'd feel even more self-conscious about my hideous outfit now had I not been too distracted by our horses.

They have identical bay roan coats, and they're easily some of the tallest and strongest of the pack. I notice a large sack off to the side labeled _sugar cubes_ and make a beeline for it, tossing away the chariot manual as I go. Don't know why I held onto it for so long; barely gave it a glance, and besides, my readings not great. Still, I'm not worried. 10 used to have a sport kind of like this; me and the gang used to make money rigging that too, back when I was just a kid. Of course, the sport was completely outlawed by the time I hit ten—way, way too dangerous, according to our mayor.

Just the thought of these early memories brings a disgusted scowl to my lips. _Me and the gang . . . _a phrase I won't be using any longer. How could those bastards turn me in so easily? Who does that?

And no, I am _not _mad because I thought we were a "family"; I'm not some stupid sap. I'm mad because . . . well . . . seriously, who _does_ that?

You know what, fuck them. Fuck people in general—people suck. District 10's famed saying of "a man's best friends are the animals he keeps" is the truth. Animals don't mess with you; people take any opportunity they can to fuck you up.

_At least I don't have to deal with any of them right now, _I think as I reach the sack of sugar cubes and scoop up a handful. Thankfully, there's no one else around—besides the obligatory Peacekeepers (which I don't count because frankly, they're more like statues than actual humans). I'm free to hang out with the only beings I deem worthy of my presence.

"Hey guys," I whisper, cautiously approaching 10's pair of horses, sugar cubes outstretched. "Standing in formation for so long must get tiring. How about a short snack break?"

I don't have to ask twice; as soon as I'm close enough, the horses' heads dive for the sugar, slurping it off my hand easily with their enormous tongues. The one of the right lets out a pleased whicker. I smile; Hansi used to do the same when I fed her. She looked quite a bit like these horses too, though her coat was a few shades darker. I stroke the one of the left, letting out a quiet sigh. What I wouldn't give to find her amongst the chariot horses. But that's impossible; more likely she's long dead on some already-forgotten battlefield.

And no, having a horse for a friend does _not _make me soft. It makes me . . . you know what, shut up.

I scowl—should have never let bitches like Morgan know about Hansi. People like her will twist whatever they can find out about a person and make it a weakness, force them to feel insecure about it. Sure, great asset for a criminal to have, but they're bitches nonetheless. Morgan's definitely not the only one out there is this shit-hole of a world. I can bet there even are a few amongst us twenty-four tributes; the girl from 6 looked entirely too smug, and I didn't like the way that guy from 2, Vitus, wouldn't shut up and leave Elegance and I alone. In reality, the District 1 girl is probably some kind of stealth bitch—if most people aren't bitchy on the surface, they're hiding their bitchiness inside—but that doesn't change the fact that she is _hot. _And hey, I've got no plans for this week—besides all this Hunger Games shit, I guess.

_Don't think about that. _Bringing up the Hunger Games makes me think of how close I was to beating the reapings, which in turn reminds me of Hannigan's betrayal. I shake my head, trying to clear it of all people thoughts, and focus on the horses. Both whicker this time when I feed them more sugar cubes. "Yeah, you liked that, didn't you? Didn't you—?"

I freeze, just coming to the realisation I'm not alone. The little girl from 7 has somehow managed to get down here without me noticing and is currently watching me from her chariot, a small grin on her face. _Shit_. After the whole Morgan incident, I hadn't bene planning on letting anyone see anything from me that didn't give off the cold, dangerous criminal vibe. I've fucked up.

_Come on, Sable, you can fix this. Be resourceful._

The little girl shyly skips over to me, a feat made difficult in her ridiculous tree costume. "H-hi," she says, nearly tripping over one of her low-hanging branches. "I'm Sequoia from Seven. I just noticed you seem really good with the horses. They're so beautiful, aren't they?" She smiles. "Could you . . . could you maybe teach me how to feed them properly? Like, with the sugar and all? You do it so well—you're great with animals. It's really sweet."

Oh no—she cannot be allowed to repeat one _word_ of that.

"Aw, what's the matter? Scared the big, bad horses might bite you?" Sequoia misses the mocking tone of my voice and nods shyly. Damn, this girl doesn't take a hint. "Well, first you'll need some _sugar_."

I punctuate the last word by giving her a forceful shove in the direction of the sugar cubes. As expected, she trips over the drooping skirt of her costume and falls backwards with a small squeal, landing (hopefully painfully) on her back.

It takes her awhile to untangle herself from her outfit before she can finally stand up. When she does, I'm happy to note the look of shy adoration has completely disappeared, replaced by confusion and hurt. "W-w-why would you d-do that?" she stutters, clearly distressed; she looks on the verge of tears. This is easier than I thought. "I-I thought . . . I th-thought you were _nice_."

I snort. "Do you even know who I am, kid?" Turning my aura of intimidation on high, I walk slowly towards the girl, taking great pride in the fact that she's clearly shitting herself while I'm trying to be menacing in a chicken costume, of all things. "I'm Sable fucking Brandmere. Member of the notorious Sagebrush Downs gang." Well, not anymore, but that doesn't matter right now. "What, never heard of the SDs before? Probably don't even have criminals in Seven—what do you do all day, sit around hugging trees and making daisy chains? Well, in Ten we have _crime_. I've lied, I've cheated, I've stolen. I nearly beat a man to death after he messed with my gang. So let me tell you one think, little girl." I kneel as best I can in my costume, forcing Sequoia to look me directly in the eye. "_Don't fucking mess with me."_

Only when tears begin to spill down her pale cheeks do I dial it back slightly and exchange my deadly scowl for an ominous grin. "Now why don't you run back to your little chariot and pray I don't throw a knife in your back on your way over?"

_That _does it. With a terrified squeak, she ducks around me and races away, only to trip over her costume and face plant. I don't hide my cruel laugh; hopefully it'll further remind her I'm anything but "sweet".

With that business taken care of, I step back towards my own chariot, but something causes me to pause. My skin is still crawling uncomfortably, like I'm being watched. But Sequoia is the only other one down here, isn't she—?

_Shit and shit again. _I've completely failed to notice the 5 guy. He's not at his chariot, but is huddled in the darkest corner of the stables like the fucking weirdo he is, methodically trying to tear his costume to shreds. Whoever designed it clearly knew they were getting a crazy though; the hard grey material doesn't even bend when he claws at it.

The kid's attention isn't completely focused on his outfit though. Every so often he glances up suspiciously, glaring around the stables. His scowl deepens when he and I make eye contact, and I mimic the expression. I've got a feeling he heard my entire exchange with Sequoia, but what about before that? What if he was down here when I was, ah, showing a moment of weakness with the horses? I can already tell this guy's fucking nuts; he'll be a damn sight harder to intimidate than a wimpy twelve-year-old.

Still, as I told Sequoia, I'm Sable fucking Brandmere. I'll make this work. Rolling up my metaphorical sleeves, I start determinedly towards the boy, only to be stopped short by a hand on my shoulder.

I whirl around, hands forming into fists at the thought of someone daring to touch me, but I don't throw a punch. It's Fascia standing behind me, and I have to admit, so far I don't have as much of a grudge against her as the rest of the human race. Sure, she's built like a bull and ugly as all get out, but she's brutally honest. I can appreciate that—lies mean devious people and devious people I _hate_. Call me a hypocrite, fine. I never said I'd like myself if I happened to meet me on the street.

"Our chariot is this way," Fascia says, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

"I've realised that, thanks." I roll my eyes before cracking a smirk. "Nice outfit, by the way."

Fascia's stylist must see her the same way I do; she's dressed from head to toe like a raging bull. Complete with horns, a tail and, yes, even a nose ring. "Is that fake, or did the Capitol actually give you a piercing just for this stupid race?"

Fascia's glower is all the answer I need. "I don't want to talk about it." She grabs my arm. "Now, back to the chariot."

I try to shake her off, to no avail; _damn_, she's strong. "Oi! Kind of busy here."

"No, you're not."

I stare at her, incredulous. She may seem blunt and kind of dumb, but she's not ignorant; she knows of the SD gang's infamy as well as any Tenner, and while we were on the train, I told her I was a part of their group. With that information in their heads, most people wouldn't think about touching or talking back to me. "_Excuse _me?"

"You're planning on starting pointless fights. Don't argue—I can see it in your eyes." She drags me back to the chariot and frowns down at me. "That'll only get you in trouble and, by extension, me. That I don't need."

She grabs both of my ridiculous sleeves/wings and hoists me up into the air before dumping me back in the chariot. "Besides, I'm not standing here alone looking like this," she adds sullenly, stepping up beside me.

Well, I can't fault her for that. Besides, more tributes are starting to trickle into the stables; if I were to fight with the guy from 5 now, we'd have an audience. And on the off (_off _off) chance I didn't happen to win, I do _not _want anyone to see me get my ass kicked. Not that I don't have complete faith in my fighting abilities, but like I said, the 5 boy looks batshit crazy. Unless you're an idiot, you think twice about attacking those kinds of people.

_Some other time, then, _I think as the boy's district partner cautiously approaches him. Hell, maybe I'm overreacting. He might not have seen anything, after all.

Still, there's something about him I don't like—more than my usual I-hate-people shit. I don't know what it is, but I can tell at some point, we're going to clash.

* * *

><p><strong>HUON MILENARIO, 17, DISTRICT 7<strong>

I'm one of the last ones down to the stables. I'm not quite sure why; I put on my costume quick enough, and spent almost no time looking at the chariot manual (can't read anyways). Sometimes that happens to me—I get so lost in my own head, I don't realise how many hours have passed.

I step out of the elevator and head directly for the chariot painted like a forest—7's, obviously. As I walk, I can't help but glance around at the other kids, and I quickly come to realise I got off on the lighter side of things in terms of outfits. Sure, I'm a hideous parody of 7's stereotypical red-necked lumberjack, but at least I'm not a stalk of wheat like the guy from 9 or a giant thimble like the girl from 8. I feel bad for them.

I reach my chariot and am surprised to find Sequoia still not around. Didn't figure she'd cause a fuss with her outfit, so where is she now?

I glance around for a moment, trying to find someone in a similar costume to me before I realise I shouldn't care. If Sequoia's not here yet, that's her problem. No need for me to get involved.

The last tribute to arrive is Hal from 4 (figures he'd be the one to hold things up). The moment he exits the elevator, the stables are suddenly alive with Capitol workers, running around getting the tributes back to their chariots and handing out lances. Sequoia appears just as a Capitolite jogs over to us.

"Where were you?" I mutter as she takes the lance the Capitol man holds out to her. She's in a crazy elaborate tree costume, all protruding branches and bright green leaves—would have been hard to miss.

"Off in the corner," comes her quiet response. Her voice is shaky, and after a good look at her, I see her eyes are puffy and red, her cheeks stained with tear tracks. I'm about to ask what happened, but then I remember I shouldn't get involved.

"You sure you can handle that?" I ask, nodding to the lance she's desperately trying to hold up. It's longer than she is tall and looks pretty damn heavy to boot.

"I'll be fine."

I don't have time to inquire further; with a jolt, all the chariots begin to move in one uniform line towards the wide double doors open before us. Unconsciously, my hands wrap around the horses' reins, but it looks like I'm not responsible for driving yet; the animals seem to know where they're going.

In perfect single file, the twelve chariots exit through the doors and into the City Circle. I grit my teeth as we come out into the light, not liking how overwhelming everything is. With the amount of lights in here, it's brighter than the sunniest of afternoons, and then there's the _noise_. Thousands of Capitolites fill the bleachers surrounding us, they're voices melding together in one deafening cheer. It's not a cry of encouragement though; you'd have to be a fool to miss the nasty edge to their chants.

A long, red line is pained across the ground, and the horses all line up before it, as though they've been trained for this their whole lives. Once the actual race begins, though, I have a feeling they won't be nearly so perfect.

I realise our chariots have stopped directly in front of what has to be the most regal-looking building I've ever laid eyes on. It's strangely familiar though, and in another second, I realise why. Images of this mansion were often pasted to the dartboard in my squad's headquarters, along with pictures of the man who owns it. It's the presidential manor. And, sure enough, on the highest balcony of the building, his face broadcast on all the television screens around us, stands Orion Hausler.

The president of Panem begins a speech, one that starts off sounding quite similar to his announcement of the Hunger Games a month ago, but I'm distracted from listening by the tributes around us. On one side of our chariot, the girl from 8 is hissing furiously under her breath; on the other, the girl from 6 is laughing and making nasty insults at the president's expense. Peering down the row of chariots, I can see both 4 kids looking furious—turning my head the other way, I can see the 9s don't look happy either.

That's to be expected, obviously, yet I still feel a strange sense of unease as I look around at all the tributes. Why—?

It hits me. I glance back down the rows to check, and yes, I'm right: most of the time, the oldest (or, if not, the strongest) tribute of the pair has taken charge of the lance. On either side of us, the girls from 6 and 8 hold theirs, the boys from 1 through 5 clutching their own poles. It was a mistake to let Sequoia take the lance like she wanted.

"Hey," I whisper as the president continues to speak. "Want to switch jobs?"

She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, protectively wrapping her arms around the lance. "Why?"

"Look around. All the older tributes are doing the offensive. It'd be better if I do too." I frown at her. "Why'd you want the lance anyway, eh? I thought you were against violence."

She glares at me then, a surprising amount of anger and condescension held in her young eyes. "I _am _against violence. That's why I'm taking the lance. Who knows what you'd do with it if you got your hands on it."

"What? Who says I'd—"

"I didn't see you jumping to stop Hal from fighting earlier. In fact, you said they all _deserve _it." She turns away, focusing her eyes firmly on the rim of the chariot. "What kind of an attitude is _that_?"

Okay, that's _not _fair. As much as I can appreciate Sequoia's resolute beliefs in morality, being lectured by a twelve-year-old is starting to get on my nerves. "Then you should also remember I told you to stay out of things that don't concern you," I say, gritting my teeth. "That also means don't talk about stuff you don't understand. You're too young to understand—"

"To understand what? The horrors of war?" Her glare turns back on me. "You really need to stop using my age as an excuse. My parents both died in the rebellion, thank you very much. I lost my family, my friends, my pets, my home, everything, same as all of you. I just get that more violence and death isn't going to bring any of it back."

That shuts me up, if only for a moment. Sequoia's past had been a complete mystery to me until now. She looks like she came from the richer part of the district, with her long, blonde hair and delicate features, but there's an underfed, kind of scruffy quality to her as well that contradicts that. Now I know why.

Still, that doesn't mean she's right. Just as I probably shouldn't use her age to justify my arguments, she can't use personal tragedies to automatically decree her beliefs as right. Maybe they work for her, but for everyone? That's a different story.

"We all deal with tragedies differently," I murmur quietly, thinking back to my little cabin so far away from civilisation in 7. "It's not up to you to decide what's best for everyone. Just respect their ways and they'll respect yours." I sigh. "Keep the lance if you want. I'll try and steer us away from any of the older kids who might try to whack you."

She glances at me in surprise, but doesn't have time to respond. At that moment, the president of Panem looks down on the row of tributes, fires a flare gun in the air and says, "Begin."

* * *

><p><strong>AELIA CASSIONUS, 15, DISTRICT 2<strong>

Yes, I'm still mightily miffed that I was chosen for the Hunger Games. Yes, I'm still furious with Mark, because I just _know _that incident with the gun is what got me reaped. Yes, I'm still irritated with Vitus, who looks like he's shaping up to be the biggest dunce of his generation.

But I'll admit, all those feelings disappear as soon as the starting gun goes off.

Immediately, I snap the reins, sending our horses charging forwards. It seems they are trained for this, enough that it'll make things easier on the kids who've never done this before while still not giving them much help. At least they won't be likely to go flying off the track.

What the other kids lack, however, is the technique, the ability to communicate with the horses, understand what they're capable of and push them to extremes without wearing them out. _That_ is the mark of a true racer. It also happens to be something I'm really good at.

With air rushing through my hair and the pounding of hooves in my ears, I can't help but let out a laugh of delight. This really does feel like being home.

"How're we doing?" I shout to Vitus over the roars of the wind and the crowd. I've got to keep my eyes on the track, but he's got his gaze focused on the tributes behind us, his lance poised and ready to use.

"Excellent!" he whoops, pumping his free hand in the air—doofus, he should be holding onto the chariot or he'll fall out. "One's doing pretty good, and Ten and Six are actually all right but everyone else is _way_ behind. We've got this in the bag!"

I'm not one to celebrate prematurely, but I can't help the grin sliding onto my face. This is _our _sport, after all. I know this is being broadcast live all around Panem, and I swear I can hear the cheers I know are coming from our district. It's kind of invigorating; makes me feel a tiny bit better about this whole ordeal.

_Clack!_

I risk a glance to the side and see 1's chariot approaching quickly on our left. Vitus and Glamour are locked in combat, their lances clashing loudly over the empty space between our chariots.

"Man, you are good!" Vitus shouts as Glamour tries to hit us once more. "That was a Caesar Thrust, that was! That's one of the most famous Two techniques, where'd you pick that up?"

"Idiot, concentrate on the fight!" I shout to my imbecile of a partner, but my words aren't needed. Even casually bantering like he is, Vitus is a master with the lance, effortlessly blocking every attack that comes our way. I have to admit, he's good—_really _good.

I'm so focused on the reins that I barely noticed what's ahead until I happen to glance up. Crap, the finish line! Races in 2 go on for so much longer, I'm used to conserving the horses' stamina until the very end. Looks like that time is now, though.

"Vitus, we're near the finish!"

He blocks another one of Glamour's thrusts and looks ahead, also noticing the red line in the ground. "Wow! Time flies."

He turns back to the 1 chariot, an apologetic smile on his face. "You guys are both great, honestly. Sorry about this. But hey, second place is awesome too!"

The muscles in his arms tense as he knocks away Glamour's swinging lance and instantly brings his own in for a powerful jab. The boy from 1 has no time to block, and the padded end his him straight in the chest, not enough to hurt, but enough to send him stumbling back into his partner, who loses control of the reins. Their chariot swerves sideways just as I crack my own reins, sending the horses forwards in a burst of speed. Honestly, none of the other districts ever had a chance.

We zip over the finish line so fast, it takes me a moment to realise before I can slow the horses down. Then Vitus is cheering and I am too, and both of us are throwing the helmets of our Peacekeeper costumes in the air like the idiots we are. But hey, everyone needs a daily dose of idiocy now and then. It's healthy.

"Aelia, that was amazing!" Vitus gushes as I rein in the horses until they stop. Without warning, he hops out of the chariot and lifts me up in his arms, twirling me around and around. "We did it!"

Usually I'd say something snarky about his stupid behaviour, but I'm too caught up in the moment. "I know! I know! Oh man, when you did that last hit, that was incredible!"

"And your driving! Dear Panem, girl, you said you were good but you didn't say you were _that_ good! Ever thought about being a professional racer?"

We both laugh, and Vitus puts me down so we can break into a hug. It might seem weird to people from other districts—I mean, the two of us barely know each other—but nothing unites Twovians like chariot races. Especially chariot races we totally _owned._

"So," Vitus says, pulling away with a cheeky grin. "Still fun despite the danger?"

I whack him on the arm, but have to concede, "Yeah. Man, I haven't had a rush like that in ages."

"I know right? It was fantastic!"

The word barely leaves his mouth before a hysterical scream cuts through the City Circle.

* * *

><p><strong>KALE PHUNGII, 12, DISTRICT 11 MALE<strong>

I knew this was going to be a disaster even before they dressed me up in my costume (I was a bushel of kale—how original) and stuck me in a deadly chariot race.

Luckily, we suck, which means we don't have to worry about being attacked by skilled people. As soon as the president fired the starting pistol, the 2 guys take off, closely followed by the chariot from 1. 6 and 10 come a bit behind, and 4 and 9 don't actually do too badly, which leaves us, 3, 5, 7, 8, and 12 to bring up the rear.

Currently, we're tied with 12 for being second last, 3 close behind. I don't think Arbor really knows how to drive this thing; I also think she feels a bit bad about making me take the lance. It's fine though; at least, I'm telling myself it is. She's scared, I get that. All of the other tributes are pretty intimidating, and she doesn't want to get into a physical fight with them. But I'm not afraid. Fear is a luxury I can't afford—not when the venom in my system takes every opportunity to turn a scary situation into an absolutely horrific one.

_Don't think about that!_ I take a deep breath, trying to focus solely on the air coming in and out of my lungs. The bright lights, the rumble of the crowd, the thunderous pounding of the horses' hooves—it's overwhelming enough as is. I'm teetering on the edge of insanity, I can feel it, and the slightest thought could push me tumbling into the shadows. I can't slip away, not here, not now. _Just keep thinking "Arbor needs you". Stay for her._

Not that I'm being much of a help. The lance is so heavy, I can't even lift it properly, let alone hope to swing it at anyone. We're just lucky we're at the back where none of the competitive crazies are hanging out.

"For the sake of Panem, don't be such a baby, Winthrop!"

Perhaps I stand corrected.

I glance over at the chariot racing next to us, where the girl from 12 is currently yelling at her district partner (I don't remember his name, but I'm positive it definitely _wasn't _Winthrop).

"I don't want to hurt anyone," he says back, nervously fingering the lance in his hands.

"The tip is padded, isn't it? They'll be fine, this is what you're _supposed _to do. Come on, I do _not _want to be living in a prison cell for a week."

Her partner glances nervously at me, and my death grip on my lance tightens. I know there's no way I'd ever be able to use it to defend myself though.

12's chariot is falling a bit behind ours, and with a shout of exasperation, the girl elbows her partner violently. "_Come on_! Just a little tap to get ahead, what's the worst that could happen? Don't make me ask again, Weyland."

The boy bites his lip, eyes unsure, but he prepares his lance all the same. With a jolt, I try to lift mine to protect Arbor and I, but it's too heavy. 12's lance slides easily around my pathetic block and pokes me in the chest.

He doesn't even hit that hard. But, by chance, the lance lands mere inches away from a portion of my skin that's still bumpy to the touch and will forever bear the scar of a stinger plunged into my body.

That's all it takes to shove me back into madness.

Immediately, the City Circle and the other chariots completely disappear, replaced by that dreaded orchard where I was stung. The first tracker jacker has latched itself to my chest, but many more are appearing out of nowhere, their murderous buzzing pounding in my ears. I can't even hear my own heartbeat; oh Panem, it's because I don't have one. I look down at my chest only to find a gaping hole, in which dozens of tracker jackers are crawling around, wriggling deeper and deeper inside my skin. They're inside me—they're _inside _me!

I scream, flailing my arms out and stumble back, as though it's possible for me to outrun the beasts. Instead, I'm falling away from them, falling into the shadows, and it's weird because it doesn't feel like falling normally does in my hallucinations. Somehow, it feels more real.

My head slams into the ground, knocking my brain against my skull. I stare up at the world around me in shock, unable to process anything. Why are there thousands of people around? I thought I was alone in the orchard. Is this another hallucination? Or is this reality?

My answer comes in the form of a high-pitched scream and the pounding of hooves. Somehow, I manage to turn my throbbing head to the right, just in time to see the chariot bearing down on me. The horses whinny loudly and toss their heads, but they don't manage to stop.

The first hoof slams into my chest, crushing my skin and snapping every one of my ribs. The agony it brings is too much, even for a hallucination. _Then this must be real._

That's the last thing I think before another hoof comes plummeting towards my skull and everything goes black.

* * *

><p><strong>PEECY SIBER, 13, DISTRICT 3<strong>

The girl from 11 is shrieking her district partner's name; the boy from 12 is saying, "Oh Panem, oh Panem" over and over, growing more hysterical with each repeat. My scream, however, is completely lacking words; it's one uninterrupted wail of horror.

I'm completely frozen, unable to make the slightest move except to keep screaming. My hands are still around the reins, clenched so tight I can feel my nails digging into the flesh of my palms. I should pull us to a stop—our horses are still racing—but I can't seem to get my muscles to work.

Beside me, Mikael tosses his lance over the side of the chariot and takes the reins himself. I still won't let go, but I don't resist as he tugs on them, somehow managing to pull our horses to a stop.

"Peecy, we need to get you out of here," he says, his gentle tone doing little to hide the alarm in his voice. "Do you hear me? Are you all right? Come on, let's go."

He softly pries my fingers from the reins, ignoring the blood getting all over his hands; my nails went right through the flesh of my palms, and I didn't even feel it. I let him turn me around and guide me out of the chariot, vaguely aware that I stopped screaming at some point. The silence doesn't last long, however.

"Peecy, Peecy, it's all right," Mikael says, a bit more frantic as I start to shriek again. But it's not all right, it's _not_. Can't he see?

On the ground a few metres away from us, the body of the boy from 11 lies. I don't even remember his name, but his appearance is etched into my head. Dark skin, a head of black curls, innocent brown eyes. None of these features are visible, looking at him now. His entire form is bent and broken, turned sickening shades of blue, black, green and yellow from the bruising—that is, what little can be see of it under all the blood. There's white bits too, sticking out from his legs, his arms, his chest. It takes me a second to realise those are his bones showing.

I'm down on the ground in an instant, throwing up whatever contents my stomach held. Every time I try to stop, the image of the Elevian's trampled corpse floats before my eyes, and I retch harder. Tears are streaming down my face to join the pool of bile because I've realised now that it's _my_ fault, all of it. I was driving our chariot—if I'd known how to swerve out of the way or stop the horses, I could have . . . oh, _Panem_, the boy's blood and guts are on the hooves of _our_ horses, on the wheels of _our_ chariot.

With another shriek, I scramble desperately away from the monstrous device, the _murder weapon_. Mikael seems to understand and helps me to my feet, his nose turned away at the smell of sick I radiate. Still, he doesn't object as I press my full weight against him, relying on him to hold me up and drag me away. I'm back to being paralysed with the horror of what we've just done.

A mob of paramedics are rushing out of the stables now. Most make for the boy from 11, but some go to help the pair from 12—the boy's on the ground, vomiting just as I was. Two women come running up to Mikael and I as well, blankets in both their hands.

"This way," one of them says, wrapping the cover around Mikael's shoulders while her partner does the same to me.

"I don't need this," Mikael says, trying to shake the blanket off without hands; those are still wrapped around my arms, holding me up. "I'm fine."

"You're in shock," the paramedic says, surprisingly gentle for a Capitol citizen. "Come with us."

"Just take care of her. She's the one who needs help." Mikael hands me over to the paramedic, who doesn't hesitate to scoop me up into her arms. Before Mikael can take off the blanket, the other paramedic takes his hands, holding them in front of his face. His fingers are shaking uncontrollably.

"Keep this on," she says, letting go of his hands and patting the blanket. "You'll feel better. Now let's go."

The women begin to head for the stables, one guiding Mikael by the shoulders, the other carrying me close to her chest. All thoughts of _Capitolites are the enemy_ disappear from my mind, and I wrap my arms around the paramedic's neck, shamelessly sobbing into her chest. H-h-how could something like th-this _happen_?

Bile rises in my throat and before I can stop myself, I'm throwing up all over the woman's uniform. I've just remembered: _this_, the death of innocent kids by other innocent kids, is the whole reason we're here in the first place.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Aaaand that's why you don't do chariot races with a bunch of kids. You've screwed up, Yoriq, you've screwed up big time :)<strong>_

_**So that's the chariot rides done! How did you feel about this chapter? I'd love feedback, especially since this is the first major act of violence in the story (besides the first two chapters, I guess). It's kind of like practice for writing the actual Games, so I want to make sure I'm doing it all right :) Anyways, thank you very much for reading!**_


	10. Wrong Place, Wrong Time

**ORION HAUSLER, PRESIDENT OF PANEM**

The infirmary is a sea of chaos. Every inch of the space is taken up with flashing alarms or beeping monitors; racing across the cluttered room are a host of paramedics, carrying equipment, shouting orders, hurry about with frantic looks on their faces. They're worried if they can't get this child to live again, their president will be, how should I say, _disappointed._ I was known as a fierce leader during the rebellion, harsh and merciless as only a president can be when war is upon his country. Still people worry about the consequences of failing me.

It's ridiculous. Strict I may be, but not unreasonable. I don't expect miracles.

For that's what it would take to raise the boy in the hospital bed: nothing short of a miracle. At this point, I'm not even sure why they bothered scraping him off of the track and bringing him back here; even from my position high above the surgery room, watching through a window, I can tell he's long gone. The boy's skull is completely shattered, his chest collapsed like a cave-in, his arms and legs broken beyond repair. There is no hope for Kale Phungii.

The doctors must see this, yet still they try futilely to help him. Is it really because they're scared of me, or something else? Could it be they feel sympathy for the dead boy? High on the balcony of my own home, I didn't miss the gasps of shock from the audience as they watched Kale Phungii fall out of his chariot. The reaction was so _human_, very different from the cruel cheers that had come before it. It worries me; have I miscalculated? I thought the entirety of the Capitol was eager for the bloodshed of rebels, excited to finally have their revenge. The death of such a young, innocent-seeming boy, however, has turned them on their heads.

I'm no exception. On one hand, I can't help but feel sickened as I stare down at the broken form on the bed, watching as two paramedics frantically attack the chest cavity with scalpels. _I _caused this. I caused the death of a boy who didn't even have a connection to the rebels. Chentanko insisted we reap some districts randomly to maintain the aura of non-interference, and Kale Phungii was one of the unlucky to suffer as a result. He'd done nothing wrong. In fact, he'd already had his punishment. I'm well-acquainted with Chentanko's file on him, and I know the horrors he has been through, the terrors from lingering effects of tracker jacker venom. The boy has been nothing but a victim of the Capitol for his entire life.

Yet, at the same time, something stirs deep within me, seeing this child of the districts lying still and bloody on the stained mattress. I don't want to acknowledge the feeling, but it's impossible not to recognise: _pleasure. _A vicious, manic pleasure at seeing a member of the enemy dead because of my actions. From this distance, he looks almost like my son. _How does it feel, you bastards? How does it feel having one of your own in Bradely's place?_

These thoughts sicken me too, but not nearly as much as they should. Does that make me a monster?

"Pity, isn't it? Things were going so _well _too."

Speak of monsters, and they shall come. I turn to face Chentanko just as he reaches my side, peering down at the dead boy in disappointment.

"Yes, a pity," he murmurs. "Should have known he'd be a loose cannon. Perhaps we should have rigged Eleven's reaping after all. Ah well."

I'll never get used to his cool indifference. "Is that _all_ you have to say?" I demand, gritting my teeth to keep from shouting. "Thanks to your ridiculous game, a twelve-year-old boy is _dead_."

"My dear president, you seem to have forgotten the entire point of the Hunger Games." Chentanko raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're having second thoughts."

I glance back at the boy on the bed. Instead of Kale Phungii, I see the prostrate form of my eleven-year-old son, coughing up blood and crying for his father as the rebel raises his gun to shoot again.

"I'm not," I say firmly, glaring at Chentanko. "But we were supposed to have twenty-four tributes for your Games. Now we have twenty-three. Our own plans have backfired on us, and what's more, the mistake was broadcast to all of Panem. You've made me look like a fool."

"Mm, well, you don't really need my help there. And don't argue," he adds, smiling as I open my mouth angrily to object. "If you don't want me to insult you, you really shouldn't set me up like that."

I glare at him, fully prepared to launch into another speech about how I am the _president,_ he is a _criminal_, and thus he has no right to speak to me this way. But I have a feeling that would be words wasted; Daelianne and I have already lectured him on this who knows how many times, and look where it's gotten us—not far, to say the least.

Chentanko smiles triumphantly as I close my mouth. "Good." The smugness in his tone nearly sets me off again, but before I can tell him off, he continues, "Besides, don't think of this as a mistake. Think of it as an _opportunity_."

"An opportunity for what?"

"For showing the districts you mean business. I can guarantee when you first announced the Hunger Games, there were very few who believed you would carry out the threat. They thought you were soft—and, to be fair to them, I can see why."

"How many times have I told you—?"

"That you're the president and I shouldn't be speaking to you like this? Many, _many _times, and you should know it's gotten you nowhere." Chentanko smirks. "Really, our conversations would go a lot faster if you stopped trying to teach me my place."

"Our conversations would also go a lot faster if you stopped provoking me."

He considers this. "Fair point. Anyways, what was I saying?"

There's no malice in my tone when I respond; I'm still shocked he actually agreed with me. "Boy's death is an opportunity. Districts think I'm soft."

"Ah, yes!" Chentanko snaps his fingers. "Right. So the districts might have thought you were bluffing before, but they sure won't now, not when you've shown you can have a child murdered in the blink of an eye if you so choose."

"But Kale's death was an accident."

"Oh, come _on_. For God's sake, you keep telling me you're the _president_, so why don't you act like it? You more than anyone should know truth is relative. What really happened doesn't matter—it's all about how you choose to tell the story."

I clench my fists; what exactly is he implying? That I'm a liar? I'll have everyone know, I'm an honest man and a more honest president. I didn't get this position by deceiving and scheming my way to the top, and I haven't kept it by spinning the truth my favour. On the contrary, the people elected me _because _of my honesty; the rebellion was brewing then, and war is not the time for reassuring lies and sugar-coated truths. The people of the Capitol wanted to know exactly where they stood.

But altering the story just this once . . . it could work. And it's not like the lying wouldn't be justified. The fate of Panem is balanced on a knife's edge, ready to topple over at the slightest touch. If the districts think I've made a mistake, if they think I've become weak, it would be more than enough push to send us back into chaos. I have to be in complete and unquestionable control of everything—or at least, I have to seem like I am.

"Fine," I say to Chentanko after a minute of inner debate. "Fine. So I take responsibility for the boy's death and then what? We send twenty-three kids into the arena?"

Chentanko shakes his head, like an intelligent parent disappointed in their stupid child. "Oh, Mr. President. You're not really going to let Eleven off _that _easily, are you?"

* * *

><p><strong>LEE TUSS, 17, DISTRICT 11<strong>

Am I a weird guy?

No—I'd actually have to say I'm one of the normalest normal people ever to normal in District 11. Which might be why I fantasise about being weird sometimes. You know, discovering one day that I have super powers or am suddenly thrust into this fantastical world, or else recruited into some intense secret agency by an alluring femme fatal.

Hm, maybe these dreams make me weird . . .

I sigh and kick a rock lying in my path. It skitters away, bouncing along the ground and into the shadows, out of the range of my torchlight. Watching the pebble disappear only increases my awareness of the darkness around me, and nervously I swing my torch left and right, as though trying to catch any creepy shadow monsters in the act of sneaking up on me.

_Stop it, Lee. Don't freak yourself out more. _There's plenty to worry about _without _thinking up imaginary dangers. I mean, 11's economy is still completely shot thanks to the war, and there are more than a few desperate folk out there; as someone relatively well-off, I could easily be mugged, or kidnapped, or just attacked for having more than others. Then, of course, there's the ever-present danger of tracker jacker nests. Damn things have made 11 their permanent home, and no matter how much work PET (Pest Eradication Team, 11's newest tracker jacker combatant organisation) does, they can't seem to make a dent in the problem. As it is, members of 11 are recommended to walk everywhere with torches so the smoke might ward the beasts off.

Speaking of, I'll have to make more for my family soon. Wouldn't be so much of a problem if I didn't keep wasting torches on my walks, but hey, I enjoy getting some fresh air now and then. Besides, I had to get out of the house, even though it's like two in the morning, and I'm getting increasingly worried I'm going to get mugged. The mood of my family was bumming me out too much.

Don't get me wrong, I don't blame them. We'd been up watching the chariot race, only partly because it's illegal if we don't; mostly, we just wanted to check and see if our kids are doing okay. Hey, I may have never met Arbor Krawp or Kale Phungii in my life, but that doesn't change the fact that they're Elevians. We support each other, no matter what.

So to see Kale crushed by those horses was absolutely horrific. Nothing was censored either; the blood, the broken bones, the hysterical screams of the other tributes, all of it was broadcast live. I'd tried to cover my younger siblings' eyes, but it happened too fast. Pretty sure they're going to be traumatised for life now—thanks, Capitol.

If that wasn't bad enough, there was a broadcast from the president only half an hour after Kale's death. Apparently the event had been planned, as a reminder to the districts the Capitol is completely serious about this Hunger Games business. They're really planning on having twenty-four kids murder each other. "And don't think Eleven can get out of this so easily," the President had ended, a menacing glare in his eyes. "Kale Phungii was an example to the rest of you, but this does not mean Eleven will only be sending one tribute into the arena. The Hunger Games is a punishment equal for all districts."

On that ominous note, the broadcast ended. My family was almost in tears, reflecting how I'm sure most of 11 feels. What do they mean, we can't get away with having only one tribute in the arena? Does that mean they're going to come back and pick another guy? Jeez, I hope not; that reaping was scary enough to go through once. My sister's lucky to be nineteen, but my brothers are fourteen and twelve. They nearly pissed themselves during the first ceremony; I don't want them enduring it again.

I should probably be getting back to them now; it's not fair to dump the comforting responsibility on my parents. But after listening to the boys crying openly (something they would _never _do on any other occasion) for three hours, I just couldn't take it. It's dumb, but a tiny part of me is still thinking, _maybe if you walk outside, you'll meet some wacky characters who'll take you away from this place and bring you on that adventure you've always wanted._

It's at that exact moment a spotlight snaps on, illuminating me in a halo of blinding rays. I swear, the universe just _waits _for people to think up stuff like that so it can screw with them.

I very nearly drop the torch in surprise; luckily, I have enough sense to tighten my grip before it falls and sets the grass on fire. My other hand goes flying to my face, shielding my eyes as I try to make out the source of the light. Is that . . . a _ship _in front of me? Oh man, is this aliens? Crap, what if I'm being abducted? _Probably shouldn't have wished so hard for that adventure, idiot._

My eyes begin to adjust just as the door to the ship opens, and I realise I'm being completely stupid. It's not a ship that's landed in front of me, but a hovercraft—figures, only those things can move so dead silent. Out of the opening in the hull comes a small group of Peacekeepers in their typical uniforms. For a second, relief washes over me—definitely _not _aliens.

This reassuring thought lasts all of two seconds before I realise the Peacekeepers' guns are pointed firmly in my direction. Aliens may have actually been better.

"Hey, I come in peace!" I say quickly, raising my hands above my head. The torch sputters in the darkness. "Don't shoot, don't shoot!"

No one responds, but at least they don't pull the trigger. Instead, one woman with a slim jaw and hard eyes strides forwards and grabs my collar. I am not proud of the scared whimper this draws from my lips.

"Name and age. Now!' she barks, glaring at every inch of my body.

"L-L-Lee Tuss, s-seventeen," I stammer without thinking. Oh Panem, what are they going to do to me?

"Well, that was easier than I thought," another Peacekeeper says, approaching the pair of us. He stops beside the woman, eyebrows raised. "Good enough?"

She squints, taking in my wide eyes, my shaking hands, my quivering lips. Then she nods. "Good enough."

Without warning, she reaches up, wrenches the torch out of my grasp and flings it off into the darkness. I want to say something along the lines of "Hey, fire hazard!" but before I can speak, the woman yanks me off my feet and starts dragging me towards the hovercraft. "H-hey!" My voice comes out in a squeak as I try to wrestle with her fingers still wrapped around my collar. "What's going on? Look, I've got a f-family, and they're going to be wondering where I am and if they find out you took me, th-they'll—"

"What?" The woman laughs humourlessly, dragging me up the ramp to the hovercraft door. "They got any sway over the president? I don't think so. You're the Capitol's property now, kid."

"W-w-what?!" I try desperately to wriggle out of her grip before she can get me into the hovercraft, but two other Peacekeepers grab my arms in rock-hard grasps. All I can do is whimper and plead as they force me onto the ship and through an unmarked door into a small, cell-like room. "Stop, stop! Why are you doing this? What's going on?!"

I cry out in shock as they toss me into the corner of the room. My elbow hits the ground painfully, and my head knocks against the wall, but I'm up in a flash, running back to them. "Wait, wait, wait! I swear whatever you think I've done, I haven't! I'm a nobody, just a normal guy, I—"

"This isn't about you, kid," the woman says, pushing me harshly away. I fall back to the ground with a thud. "Chalk it up to wrong place, wrong time. Eleven needs a new male tribute, and you're the first one we came across. Good luck in the Hunger Games."

I let loose one long, frantic cry of "Waaaaait!" Too late—she's already stepped outside and slammed the door shut behind her. I run to it, fiddling desperately with the handle, pounding mercilessly on the frame, but no one comes to my aid. "Someone, anyone, please! I shouldn't be here! I haven't done anything wrong! Listen to me, I'm not a rebel!"

My cries go unanswered. I'm left alone in this small, dim cell, unsure why the floor is vibrating until I realise it's because the hovercraft is taking off. They're leaving my district, my _home _behind—and taking me with them. Within the span of five minutes, my life has changed so drastically I can do nothing to process it. All I'm capable of is sliding to the ground and wrapping my arms around my news, sobbing quietly to myself. In my head, over and over again, I see the death of Kale Phungii play out, accompanied by a soundtrack of the Peacekeeper's last words. _"Eleven needs a new male tribute. Good luck in the Hunger Games."_

* * *

><p><strong><em>So yes, there is a new D11 male tribute now. Hopefully that's not too confusing for everyone! The blog and poll on my profile have been updated accordingly. Also, this marks the tenth chapter of A New Era Dawns! Double digits, yay! :) We're also officially more than halfway to the Games - nine more chapter until the tributes enter the arena! I hope you're all enjoying things so far and don't forget to vote on the tribute poll! <em>**


	11. Raised for the Slaughter

_**This chapter's a bit longer, mostly because it's the first where the tributes can really interact with each other, which I love to write :) I hope things don't seem too rushed though - I'm trying not to overwhelm you with too much writing by keeping each tribute's POV ideally between 1000-2000 words. Is this format working out well for you guys, or would you prefer less POVs per chapter with more info?**_

_**Additionally, I've updated the blog with each tribute's weapon of choice. Keep in mind not all of them will get to use their weapon of choice in the arena, but it's the weapon they're most skilled with/would prefer to use if they had the chance. Just thought it'd be a fun little thing to see :)**_

_**Anyways, that's it for me! Hope you enjoy the chapter!**_

* * *

><p><strong>SABLE BRANDMERE, 17, DISTRICT 10<strong>

Our escort sends Fascia and I down to the gym with a Peacekeeper to watch over us, rather than going himself. Personally, I think he's scared of us. Normally, that would please me, but in reality, I think it's Fascia that's got him terrified, rather than myself. The Capitolite has clearly never heard of the SD gang before, and fine, I'll admit, I don't have the most intimidating build.

It's while we're in the elevator that I realise how simple it would be to slip onto someone else's floor. I mean, Peacekeepers can't be watching us all the time, right? It'd be a piece of cake to sneak into the elevator after hours and zip down to another level; it's not like they're guarded by locked doors or anything. I make a mental note of this and file it away for later—might come in handy if I ever have to intimidate my competition.

The elevator door slides smoothly open, and we're immediately shoved forwards by the Peacekeeper. I have to admit, I'm impressed. Overnight, the Capitol has transformed the quaint waiting room we were kept in yesterday into an exercise-obsessed, steroid-charged, macho psychopath's dream. The carpet of the room has been completely torn up, revealing a painted track at the edges. Beyond this, dozens of stations have been set up, ranging from rock-climbing to axe-chucking to blade-spinning. There are smaller ones too, with tiny signs proclaiming things like "Edible food station: Test your knowledge!" and "Rope tying: I swear it's useful!"

I snort. Bit desperate, don't you think?

Someone clears their throat. I glance over at the back of the room; the previously empty balcony has been filled with men and women all wearing lab coats, gazing down on us analytically, as though we're guinea pigs in their science experiment. Oh, wait . . .

"If you would be so kind as to join the others." A woman with blue hair is the only one out of her chair. She stands at the front of the balcony, her hands clenching the railing tight. I suppose she's the leader, but really, with that hair? Good luck getting anyone to take you seriously, sweetheart.

Still, Fascia and I reluctantly slouch our way over to the crowd of tributes gathered in the centre of the room. No use getting into trouble if we can avoid it; I've already seen how the more _problematic _tributes are treated. If I'm going to be in an arena fighting for my life in five days, I don't need any extra injuries.

"Now we may begin," Blue Hair says as Fascia and I reach an acceptable distance to be considered "part of the crowd". "My name is Daelianne Botterwurth. I am the vice-president of Panem and one of the Hunger Games' Head Gamemakers."

She pauses for a moment, as though expecting to be interrupted. Frankly, I'm surprised she isn't, until I catch sight of the most vocal Capitol hater in our midst. The 4 guy's blue T-shirt does nothing to hide the dark bruising around his neck; every so often he fingers the skin gingerly, coughing quietly into his arm. Of course, his glare is still murderous, but it must be hard to shout out insults when you've recently been strangled.

"Your other Head Gamemaker," Botterwurth continues, and is it just me or does she look _pissed _as she speaks? "Is Yoriq Chentanko."

With a movement far too mechanical and forced to indicate any love she holds for the man, Botterwurth gesture to the guy sitting on her right, who's staring at us with an unmistakably _hungry_ look. Yeesh, I grew up on the bad side of Ten, and this guy still freaks me out. What the hell is up with his eyes?

I hear a sharp intake of breath beside me and glance at Fascia, who's narrowed her eyes in Chentanko's direction. She looks him up and down before muttering, "Well, fuck me."

"Sorry, you're not really my type," I throw in. Without skipping a beat, she punches me in the arm—like, seriously punches, not that playful crap. I can't hold back a wince. "Um, _ow_."

"You're too delicate," she mutters, keeping her tone low so we're not heard. Not that anyone's listening. Botterwurth's blabbing on about training etiquette or something stupid like that, and most are paying attention to her. "And I've told you before to stop making sexual jokes about the things I say."

True. When I'd first gotten on the train, despite how hideous a specimen I consider Fascia to be, I'd still decided my best bet would be to flirt with her. Back in 10, no girl could resist me, and I'd thought it'd be wise to get a wall of meat like Fascia on my side and undeniably devoted to me. Figured it'd be easy too—ugly girls aren't used to being flirted with; give them one compliment and they'll be putty in your hands.

That was one theory proven wrong in six seconds flat. Fascia rebuffed my first attempt at hitting on her, and then I made the mistake of trying to slide my arm around her shoulder. Somehow I wound up on the ground, back aching, arm stretched and sore, with Fascia standing over me giving me her same, completely deadpanned look. She stuck out her finger like I was a misbehaving dog, simply said, "No" and walked away. So much for Smooth Sable.

I have to admit though, that little incident did give me a grudging respect for my tough-as-nails district partner. I've never seen her lose her cool, so to see her look so mad now is surprising (and, not that I'll admit it, but kind of terrifying).

"So what's up with you and that Chentanko guy?" I whisper, rubbing my arm. The Head Gamemaker's eyes are entirely black, making it impossible to tell where he's looking, but I've got a creepy feeling he's watching us right now.

"Bastard showed up at my house two months back, asking me to forge ancient weapons for him. As payment I was promised 'an opportunity to gain riches beyond my wildest dreams'." Suddenly, she gasps and glances around at the surrounding stations. Her gaze hones in on the swordplay equipment not too far from us. "Damn, I knew everything looked familiar! They're rip-offs of my designs! Shitty rip-offs too." She turns her furious glare back on Chentanko, and at her sides I can see her hands ball into fists. "How fucking _dare_ he."

Chentanko must have noticed her looking; his smile widens and, out of sight of his lecturing co-worker, he twiddles his fingers, giving Fascia a little wave. She responds with two middle fingers thrust contemptuously in the air.

"And that concludes the introduction," Botterwurth finishes, casting her disdainful glance our way and raising an eyebrow. "Your training begins now. You will have three hours to visit the stations, at which point an hour break for lunch will be called. You will then resume training for four hours before the day is done. Work hard and be smart about it—remember, your lives depend on this."

* * *

><p><strong>ZIBELINE TASSLE, 16, DISTRICT 8<strong>

I honestly haven't heard a word our Head Gamemaker said, and really, I couldn't care less. This time, however, my lack of paying attention isn't due to my disregard for anything a Capitolite says. I'm distracted for a much more embarrassing reason.

_She's looking over here! Turn away, Zee, turn away or she'll think you're weird!_

All right, yes—I may or may not be freaking out about sharing a room with Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer. Honestly, I'm surprised more people aren't in awe; I mean, here she is, in the flesh! The famed rebel soldier I've heard so much about, the girl who I've modeled my life after—she's standing not ten feet to my left! It's all I can do to maintain my calm demeanor, while inwardly I'm squealing like a child.

Finally, Daelianne or whatever her name was dismisses us. My first thought is to make a beeline for Lara-Dorsa, tell her how much I admire her and that I'm completely, one hundred percent devoted to her and whatever she has planned. Because she _must _have a rebellion plan brewing, right? I mean, she's Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer!

Unfortunately, the pressing burden of another responsibility holds me back from meeting my long-time hero. With a silent sigh, I reluctantly turn back to my district partner, crossing my fingers that for once, he might actually be all right.

No such luck. From the moment he stepped off the train when the Capitol was returning its prisoners, I could tell Mack wasn't the perfect, model soldier those like Lara-Dorsa are. He's much too frail and fragile, melting down into a panic attack at the slightest provocation. Not that I blame him, of course; he sounds like he's been through a lot. Some people are simply better equipped to handle war than others. I mean, I'm not trying to say that I'm better or stronger than him or anything. I just . . . well, I've taken it upon myself to stand by him and protect him when he seems vulnerable, which, unfortunately, is most of the time.

Something's even more off today though. I'm used to the occasional bout of shuddering or whimpers of repressed sobs, but this is something else entirely. Despite our being dismissed, Mack hasn't stopped staring up at Daelianne, eyes wider than I thought humanly possible. He's as white as a sheet, and his whole body is shaking so violently I'm worried he's going to fall over.

"Mack?" I say tentatively, fighting the urge to put my hand on his shoulder. Back in 8, I was pretty decent at comforting my fellow rebellious peers when tragedy struck, but my district partner operates on a whole different level of fear, one I have no skill in dealing with. All the little gestures that would reassure others only make him worse. "Mack, are . . . are you all right?"

"Fine!" The word comes out in a high-pitched squeak, immediately marking it as a lie, but I don't have time to call him on it. Stumbling away from me, he continues to stutter, "I, uh, I-I just have to, um . . . g-go to the washroom. Y-y-yeah, um, s-see you around."

Before I can object, he whirls around and practically sprints towards the washrooms at the far end of the gym. Part of me knows I should go after him because it's obvious he's not okay, but invading what is definitely _guy _territory . . . what if there are other tributes in there? That's a level of awkward I'd rather not deal with.

I still feel bad as I turn away from the bathroom door though, but I tell myself it's fine, that I'll keep watching and check up on Mack when he comes out. In the meantime . . .

I glance around the gym, checking to see what the other tributes are getting up to. Of course the pair from 2 has marched right over to the weapons stations like the good little lapdogs they are; currently, the boy is amusing the girl with some stupid sword demonstration. The guy from 1 is also engaging in swordplay, wielding a massive great sword and taking down any dummies that stand in his way. I shake my head; how are these kids so all right with the idea of learning weapons skills in order to kill each other?

At least the others aren't nearly as into this. Most everyone else is wandering around aimlessly, often sticking to their district partners and watching the other tributes nervously. Some stop reluctantly at stations after encouragement from the trainers manning them, but others remove themselves completely from the area, watching contemptuously from the sidelines. Notably among this group are the pair from 4, the girl from 10, and the pair from 6.

My heart gives a nervous leap of excitement when I see Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer huddled by the wall with Fender Exxe, whispering furiously to him. I bet she's explaining a fantastic rebel plot right at this moment. What I wouldn't give to be a part of it.

Well, what's stopping me? I mean, there's no rule about not talking with other tributes (not that I'd care if there was). Sure, I'm nothing compared to someone like Lara-Dorsa, but surely she'd be happy to have another loyal rebel at her side, right? I shuffle nervously from foot to foot, torn between my desire to meet my hero face to face and my worry that I'll make a fool out of myself.

With a deep breath, I force myself to make a decision. _Come on, Zee. You didn't get respect back in 8 for being a scared little girl._

Fists clenched in resolve, I start determinedly towards the pair from 6. The boy is the first to glance up and notice me, which nearly dissolves all my confidence, but before I can change my course and run away, he taps his district partner on the shoulder. No going back now.

_Zibeline Tassle, 8. Big rebel back in my district, something I think we have in common. Why not fight together? _The introduction sounds so cool and smooth in my head, but the moment Lara-Dorsa's eyes fall on me, I find I can't speak a word. _She's looking at me. She's really looking at me. Those deep, dark brown eyes I've seen so often on TV are finally looking at me. Oh man, oh man, oh—shoot, keep it together, Zee! You're acting like a flustered groupie._

"Hey, I remember you." The older girl puts a finger to her chin, tapping it thoughtfully. "Yeah, Eight girl, right? Volunteered for that little one?" She smiles. "They only broadcast the end of your reapings, but I can tell something awesome went down beforehand. You'll have to tell us about it sometime."

I'm stunned. More than stunned—I'm catatonic. Lara-Dorsa knows me. Lara-Dorsa knows ME. I'm getting dangerously close to hyperventilating as much as my district partner.

_Don't just stand there! For goodness sake, say something back to her!_

"I love you," I blurt out before I can think. "Your work, I mean. And you as a person. No, what I mean is, I just . . . you're so . . . the way you took out that Capitol squadron and sabotaged the trains and . . . I mean, you were such an incredible rebel. Leader. Rebel leader. I . . ."

I let my voice peter out, wishing I had the opportunity to slap myself. Well, that was a train wreck.

Lara-Dorsa has an eyebrow raised, her expression amused and confused all at once. I take a deep breath and let out a long sigh. "Look," I begin again, trying to find any shred of eloquence I might still have left. "What I mean to say is, I just, I really admire you. I mean, you're _Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer_. You're, um, you're kind of my hero. Not kind of, you are. I—" I stop short, groaning internally. "I'm messing this up."

"Not as much as you might think." Before my shocked brain can process this, Lara-Dorsa laughs and claps me on the back. "No worries, Eight, I get it. You're not the first person to find me a bit overwhelming."

"Oh, oh, of course I'm not," I stutter, still amazed she's talking so casually with me, as though I'm an old friend. "I mean, you must get it a lot. You know, all the rebels look up to you."

She nods her head absently in agreement, but her face bears a frown as she glances around at the distant tributes. "Unfortunately, they haven't all been too eager to show it." Her expression brightens, and she claps her hands. "But, not to worry! We've got a plan to fix that, don't we, Fender?"

"Yes, Miss Tuppenheimer."

"Lara-Dorsa. Lara. LD. Any variation of that, just seriously, stop with the formalities." She grins and pats him on the back. "This is my district partner, by the way—Fender Exxe. You know 'im?"

"O-of course!" I smile down at the timid twelve-year-old peering around Lara-Dorsa. "Your mother was an inspiration to all of us."

Surprisingly, this doesn't seem to cheer him up. Maybe the reminder of his mother's death wasn't the best thing to open with. _Seriously, Zee, where is your head today?_

"Anyways, we're working on a plan to unite the tributes against the Capitol again, since a few of them seem to be forgetting the real enemy here. You seem to know what's what, though." Lara-Dorsa puts a hand on my shoulder. "Care to join the cause?"

I-I'm shocked. Never in all my life did I ever think I'd even _meet _Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer, let alone be asked to _work _with her. "Y-y-yes!" I can't keep the excited stutter out of my voice as my face breaks into a wide grin. "Yes, definitely! It would be an honour."

* * *

><p><strong>AZIMUTH KURINDT, 16, DISTRICT 5<strong>

I retreated to the washroom as soon as the Capitol woman dismissed us. Hell if I'm going to do their stupid training like the rest of these stupid tributes. On my way over, I saw the pair from 2 already heading to the swordplay station, waving dangerous blades around and giggling like the children they are. Do they even know what they're getting into? Have they ever killed before? Idiots.

I jerk up as the door to the bathroom creaks open, my hands unconsciously clenching into fists. Everyone should have seen me disappear in here; this is _my _territory now. At Duskendawn, people respected borders or they wound up with a knife in their back. Looks like I'll have to teach these tributes to heed these rules.

Through the crack between the stall door and the wall, I can just see the intruder over by the sink, splashing his face furiously with water. He's too hard to identify with his back turned, but it doesn't matter—all of the tributes here are either Capitol suck-ups or rebellious bastards; it'd be a pleasure to teach any of them a lesson.

I slam my foot into the stall door, nearly kicking it off its hinges as it bursts open. Before the tribute by the sinks has time to react, I've covered the distance between us and grabbed him by the back of his shirt. My feet shift positions effortlessly on the ground as I hurl him into the wall, stepping after him before he can recover and slamming my forearm across his throat, effortlessly keeping him pinned.

"Let me tell you a thing or two about the current status quo," I growl, forcing more pressure down on the guy's thin neck. "This place is _my _territory now. You don't come here unless I say you can. And did I? _Did I fucking say you can_?"

The boy tries to squeak out a response, and that's the moment I have clarity. My eyes clear, the red tinge of anger receding to the edges of my vision, and I realise exactly who I've got pinned in front of me.

"Aw shit." I step away from the boy from 8, releasing my hold on him. He crumples immediately to the ground. "Shit, shit, shit." Of course it's the one guy I haven't entirely formed an opinion of hate about, if only 'cause I could see myself in him, just a little bit. Mack Ramaye: underage soldier, recruited prematurely to fight the districts' war and captured by the Capitol. The rebels screwed him over just like they did me.

Evidently though, this is where our similarities end. Whereas if I was attacked by some guy in a bathroom, my assailant would no longer be breathing, it's the other way around for Mack Ramaye. Actually, shit, yeah, he's _not_ breathing. I'm no longer touching him, I swear, but he's convulsing and gasping like he's still being choked. For a moment, I wonder if I did greater damage to his throat than I'd meant to with my attack, but then it hits me. _Panic attack. _I haven't seen one since the beginning of the Duskendawn siege; people there learned quickly that dissolving into hysterics marked them as weak. Those guys never lasted long.

"Oi." I squat down beside the shaking boy. "Ramaye, breathe. _Breathe_, dumbass. Look, there's nothing stopping you anymore."

I poke his bare neck to emphasise my point; the reaction is instantaneous. His eyes snap wide open, the remaining blood drains completely from his face and, faster than I would have thought possible for someone in his condition, he's scrambling away across the tiled floor. "I-I-I'm sorry!" he chokes out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I-I didn't know you were in h-h-here, I swear. Please, please just let me go, d-d-d-don't h-hurt me—"

"No promises. I'm 'the psycho', remember?" I'm not a fool, and I'm not deaf either; I've heard the other tributes talking about me.

I stand and advance on Ramaye, who squeaks and wraps himself into a ball; his attempt at escape has, rather unfortunately for him, taken him to the side of the washroom opposite the door. For some reason, I'm tempted to reassure him that I won't hurt him again, but hey, don't make hollow promises, my parents always said. Who knows what I might do if I'm so 'insane'.

I kneel beside Ramaye again; something caught my eye earlier that I want to investigate. My rough handling of the kid caused the collar of his long-sleeved shirt to slide down slightly, revealing what seemed to be a long, nasty scar. Now I manage to weave my arm between his knees and his chest to hook the edge of his shirt with my finger, pulling it back to check. The trembling mess of a kid doesn't even react.

Yep, that's a scar all right, and an ugly, thick one at that. Long too—I whistle softly to myself, watching it carve down Ramaye's skin and disappear into darkness. "How far down does that go?"

Ramaye had squeezed his eyes shut again, but at my comment he opens them, glancing at me before following my gaze to his scar. With a sharp gasp, he grabs the material of his shirt and tugs it out of my grip, pulling the collar up as high as it will go. Now that I'm looking for them though, it's easy to spot the smaller scars on the areas his clothes don't cover. The raised line of the back of his right hand. The faint, white semicircles around his chin, likely made by fingernails. The circular cicatrice around his left eye.

I sit back on my heels with a dark chuckle. "Man, the rebels really messed you up, didn't they?"

Ramaye stares at me nervously. "N-n-n-not the r-r-rebels," he manages to stutter, flinching as though I'm going to hit him for the interruption. "The C-C-C—"

"The Capitol? Really?" He quails under the might of my glower; I'm sick, _sick _of people using our corrupt rulers as an excuse. That's what all the survivors at Duskendawn said: it was the _Capitol's _fault we'd wound up in such a horrid situation. Never mind the bastard who forced us into the siege. Stautick was 100% District 5 material.

"Right," I continue angrily. "So you're telling me it was the Capitol who recruited an underage soldier for the army? What are you, seventeen now? I heard Eight had a rule you wouldn't be properly enlisted until eighteen. But the rebels needed more cannon fodder, didn't they?"

"N-n-no, that's not wh-what . . . what h-h-happened . . ." But I can already see the doubt in his eyes.

I have more to say, but before I can utter another word, the bathroom door swings open again and in runs the boy from 9. I'm on my feet immediately, spitting, "This is _my_ territory. Get out."

"Look, I respect that, I really do," the kid says distractedly, hopping from one foot to the other. "But dude, you really can't claim the only guys' bathroom on this floor as your land. Some of us really, _really _need to use it too."

I'm tempted to kick him out anyways, but if he puts up a fuss the Peacekeepers outside might notice and kick us all out. So, with the biggest glare I can muster, I snarl, "Quick."

The kid runs into a stall before I need to speak twice. Rolling my eyes, I turn back to Ramaye, who's still curled up on the ground, looking just as lost as before. "So, yeah," I continue, sitting myself back next to him and earning another flinch. "Stop pinning the blame for your issues on some faraway villains. Your enemies are much closer to home."

Honestly, I'm not entirely sure why I'm telling him all this. I mean, it's true, obviously, but I also can't shake the feeling that I want someone else who understands. None of the Duskendawn survivors did; they didn't bat an eye when my parents had me put in a mental institution to "deal with my issues".

"B-b-b-but the r-rebels . . ." Ramaye takes a deep breath. "The rebels f-f-fought for us."

"Biggest fucking lie of the century. The rebels fought for themselves, same as what everyone does. The only person you can count on to help you out is you. The rest of the world's bastards will only push you down."

"B-but what about, l-l-like, family?"

Images flood my brain of my stuck-up siblings watching me from behind the safety glass, my backstabbing parents spewing meaningless phrases like "it's for your own good" and "it's because we _love _you". I grit my teeth. "Please. You really think bastards like that actually _care_ about you?"

I'd been speaking more to myself at that point, but the words seem to hit Ramaye hard nonetheless. His shaking becomes even worse, and I can see tears pricking the corners of his eyes before he shudders and buries his head in his hands.

"Hey, is he all right?"

I glare up at the kid from 9, who's just finishing up washing his hands. "What's it to you?" I snap. "And I thought I told you to get out of here quick."

"Yeah, yeah, tough guy. Sorry, but your type are everywhere in Nine. I'm not scared of you."

"My type being insane psychopaths? Nine must be a hell of a district."

The kid rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Attack me if you want, I really don't care."

I could too. I've noticed this kid already walks funny—probably still suffering from some relatively fresh wounds. I could take him down in two seconds flat. Strangely enough, though, I don't act as the kid sits beside Mack, slinging an arm around his shoulder.

"Hey, it's all right," he whispers calmly. "I'm Miller Sorgum. And you're Mack Ramaye, right? What's wrong?"

"Like you give a shit," I snarl.

"And you do?" Miller shakes his head. "I heard you talking about family being your enemy. How can you be so heartless?"

"Oh please. You think being related means unconditional love?"

"Yes, actually, I do."

"And where's your family?"

Sorgum's jaw clenches. "Dead."

"Lucky you."

"Not really."

Before I can retort, the bathroom door opens again—the fuck is with these bastards and their small bladders? I glare at the boy from 4 as he stumbles in.

"Oh, uh, sorry," Hal Ibbit mutters, glancing at the three of us sitting on the floor.

"Shit quick and get the fuck out," I snap.

His cheeks redden. "I, um, actually just came in here for a break."

"Then you can get the fuck out now."

"Don't listen to him." Sorgum throws me a disparaging glance. "Come on, you can't claim ownership of such a public space. We all need a haven from the madness out there."

I'm starting to fantasise about wrapping my hands around Sorgum's scrawny neck, but before I can act, Ibbit plops down beside him.

"So, what are you trying to get away from?" Sorgum asks.

Ibbit's blush deepens. "Um . . . okay, this sounds bad, but, uh . . ." He sighs. "My district partner."

"_Hah_." I smirk maliciously at Sorgum. "I told you, can't trust anyone but yourself. Poor girl probably thought she could be so reliant on her new _friend_."

"Hey, I am her friend!" he snaps. "I just . . . need some time alone, that's all. Anne can get kind of, I don't know . . ."

"Attached?" Sorgum suggests.

"Sure, yeah." Ibbit sighs. "I shouldn't let myself get annoyed by it. I mean, it's not her fault she's a bit . . . eccentric."

"Of course not. It's no one's fault they wind up that way."

It's impossible to miss Sorgum's steady stare in my direction. "You looking at me for a particular reason, Nine?" I growl dangerously.

He shrugs. "Just wanted to let you know, what happened to you isn't your fault either. In case, you know, someone might have told you otherwise."

"Oh, you think they did, did they?"

"Well, you seem to have a lot of hate for people. I'm guessing it's because you've been mistreated and abandoned in the past—maybe even by your family, since you were so adamant about hating them before—"

"Say that to my face again. I _dare_ you."

But before I can smash Sorgum's face in, the bathroom door opens—fucking _again_—and in slouches the boy from 7. He stops short upon seeing all of us.

"Never mind," Milenario murmurs. "I'll go somewhere else."

"It's okay," Sorgum says. "We don't mind if you stay."

"I actually came in here to be alone."

"Funny," I say, glaring scathingly at the boys around me. "So did I."

"You weren't alone when I walked in here," Sorgum points out. "And you didn't seem too eager to make Mack leave. I don't think you hate people as much as you want to. And that's okay," he adds quickly as I raise my fist. "Everyone needs someone. No one can live alone."

"I've got a district partner who can attest to that," Ibbit mutters.

Now I want to punch _both _their faces, but another intruder in the washroom stops me. I grit my teeth as the boy from 10 appears around Milenario's back. For some reason, Sable Brandmere seems to have it out for me, and I'm not one to leave feelings of hatred unreciprocated. Whatever his problem is, if he wants to fight, then let's fucking _fight_.

He's all cocky arrogance as he takes in the washroom. "Well, well, well." A sly smile creeps up on his face. "What's going on here? A meeting? A tea party? An orgy?"

I'm up before anyone can blink, standing and spitting, "Get out _now_."

Brandmere raises his hands, a gesture of fake pacifism. "Sure, whatever dude." He smirks. "The girls are more my style anyways."

Red floods my vision, and I am one second away from tear Brandmere's conceited grin right off his face when a Peacekeeper storms into the washroom.

"Oi!" he shouts. "What the hell are you all doing in here? It's lunchtime, get to the dining hall! Out, out _now_."

With one last smirk in my direction, Brandmere slips out the door. Milenario follows without complaint. Both Sorgum and Ibbit glare at the Peacekeeper, but he's brandishing his baton menacingly, and they seem to think twice about opposing him—pity, I wouldn't have minded watching either get pummeled. Sorgum helps Ramaye to his feet, but the 8 boy nervously shakes him off and hurries out the door.

I'm the last one to exit, giving the Peacekeeper a solid glare as I leave. Of course, it's not entirely his fault; if those idiots from the other districts hadn't continued piling into the washroom, I could have gotten away with hiding out in there. As I always say, the enemy is closer than you think.

* * *

><p><strong>WINZE REAMING, 13, DISTRICT 12<strong>

"I mean, how are you so calm about this? How are you not freaking out?"

"I'm remarkably level-headed, Wyatt. It's one of my many skills, and one you could do with learning yourself."

"Dear Panem, Aloi, we basically _killed _someone."

"What did you think we were going to have to do when we got into the arena, hm? Think of it as good practice."

I stare at her, unable to respond. How, _how _is she acting like this isn't a big deal? I poked Kale Phungii in the chest with my lance and the next thing I knew, he was falling out of his chariot and being crushed to death. I _killed _someone; I, thirteen-year-old Winze Reaming, am a murderer. I couldn't sleep at all last night, couldn't eat or do anything except think of the boy's broken form bleeding out on the racetrack.

I shake my head furiously as my stomach twists. Lunch ended half an hour ago and all I had was a tiny piece of bread, but it still feels like I'm set to blow at any second. I couldn't stop doing a headcount of the tributes at the tables around us. _Twenty-three. Twenty-three thanks to me._

"So what do you suggest we do, then?" I ask, well aware my voice is becoming more hysterical by the second. "Just ignore what happened and go about training like we're _not _preparing to kill more kids?"

"Well, as that's what I'm doing right now, yes." Aloi looks up from the tent she's building and sweeps her arm out at the surrounding area. "There's a whole gym out there for you to explore, Wensley. Go try something fun and stop bothering me. You're crushing my creativity."

I want to point out creativity is _not _something necessary for building shelters, but I hold back. It's clear Aloi isn't doing this to learn survival skills, or she wouldn't be spending so long on the aesthetics of her tent. My guess? She's trying to distract herself from what happened last night. I don't think she's nearly as flippant about Kale's death on the inside as she seems to me now.

And if that's her way of dealing with things, I suppose I shouldn't bother her. "All right," I say, turning away with a sigh. "I'll see you later then."

I walk off aimlessly, my eyes darting around the gym for something to do. None of the stations interest me—in fact, most of them _intimidate_ me. Swordplay, mace work, throwing knives? No kid should be learning this.

My gaze lands on the boy from 3, tinkering idly by the technology station. More than anything, I want to talk to him and his district partner, see how they're feeling about what happened to Kale. Maybe Aloi deals with her issues by ignoring them, but I need someone who understands what I'm going through so I don't feel so alone. It was 3's chariot that crushed Kale; I've got a feeling they're just as traumatised as I am.

But the guy from 3 is eighteen and intimidating to talk to with his lanky height and condescending stare. I don't feel comfortable walking over to him and striking up a conversation. His district partner is my age though, isn't she? Yeah, Peecy Siber. I scan the gym, trying to find the small girl with the dirty blonde hair—there, by the war hammer station, standing stock-still and staring at nothing.

I hurry over to her, coming to a stop at her side. She doesn't look at me. "Um, hi," I say nervously, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt before sticking out a hand for her to shake. "Winze Reaming, District Twelve."

She doesn't take my hand, and after a moment, I let it fall back to my side. Still, I'm not going to give up this easily. "So, you're Peecy Siber, right? Would you, um, would you mind if I hang out here with you?"

Still no response. It's not a no, though, so I take up a spot leaning beside her against the wall. "So, uh, I was just wondering . . . can we talk? About—about what happened last night. With K-Kale—"

She doesn't say anything, but her reaction is visible nonetheless. With a sharp gasp, she presses herself further into the wall, and I can see her neutral expression waver as her mouth quirks uncontrollably into a frown. Tears are building in her eyes, threatening to spill at any moment.

Mentally, I curse myself. What was I thinking, bringing up Kale's death with Peecy? If she's feeling as bad as I am, maybe she doesn't want to talk about it; maybe Aloi was right and should try to distract ourselves from it. Maybe this kind of trauma, it's not just something thirteen-year-olds shouldn't deal with—it's something we _can't _deal with.

So, putting on a warm smile, I pretend I'm dealing with Lisya and Keerlin as I try to backtrack. "Sorry, sorry. Never mind. Hey, why don't we go do something fun instead, eh? Like, um, maybe we can check out one of these stations or something. I mean, what about that one? That looks kind of fun, huh?"

The station nearest us is with the war hammers, but part of it looks set up like a carnival game. Back before the Dark Days, 12 used to have a little summer fair where kids could have fun and parents could treat themselves once a year. I always loved going with my family, and our favourite game had to be the whack-a-mole. This hammer station seems similar. Hopefully it'll be fun enough to distract both Peecy and I from the horrors of last night.

The girl still looks like she might cry, but she doesn't resist as I lead her over to the station. A man relaxing in a chair springs up as he catches sight of us—I guess his business has been kind of slow up 'til now. "Here to try the hammers?" he asks.

"S-sure, I guess. I'll go first." _Fun, remember? This is fun._

He takes a moment to analyse me, measuring my height, weight and the size of muscle in my arms before handing me a large, two-handed hammer flat at one end and razor sharp at the other. "This is a horseman's pick," he explains as I struggle to old onto the massive weapon. "Ancient weapon, usually used by men mounted on horses, and yes, it's a bit unwieldy, but might be a good fit for you. See how the spike curves downwards, kind of like a pickaxe? That makes it good for Twelve, right?"

"Sure." I don't have the heart to tell him I've never touched a pickaxe in my life.

He spends time teaching me how to hold the hammer properly and ways to get the best momentum while swinging as I fumble around awkwardly with the weapon and Peecy looks on soundlessly. Finally, he puts me in front of his whack-a-mole type thing. "This is just a fun little exercise to get you used to swinging quickly and repeatedly," the trainer says, pressing a few buttons on the side of the game. "Three, two, one. Go!"

I ready the hammer, trying to ignore the straining in my muscles. Hey, at least my mind is off Kale. Well, now it's not . . . _Focus on the game, Winze, focus on the game._

My reflexes act for me; the moment I see a flash of movement from one of the holes in the board, I swing without even thinking. The satisfying _thunk _of impact reaches my ears as vibrations race up and down my arms. But hey, that was kind of fun, wasn't it? If I close my eyes, I could almost fool myself into thinking I'm back at the fair with my parents and brother at my side instead of—

Peecy whimpers, and I glance at her, worried; has she somehow gotten hurt? No, she looks fine, albeit the expression of horror as she stares at the hole beneath my hammer. Frowning, I heave the weapon back into my arms and stop short.

Beneath the face of my hammer is not a mole like in the games at 12's fair. What popped out of the hole is unmistakably the form of a kid's head, now crushed nearly beyond recognition.

"Not to worry, they're supposed to do that," the trainer says quickly; he thinks I'm worried because I've wrecked his machine. He presses a button and the head re-inflates. "See? Nothing to worry about. That was a good hit though, excellent for a first try, Mr. Reaming. Well done."

"W-why is it a kid's head?"

"Pardon?"

"Why is . . . why . . .?" I gesture helplessly to the inflated head, suddenly too sick to continue talking. When it was crushed, when I-I smashed it with my hammer, it . . . it looked like Kale. Kale's head trampled by the pounding of horse hooves, Kale's head oozing bits of his brain onto the ground, Kale's head caved in like a crater surrounded by hills of reddened bone.

"Oh, the head? Just for extra effect, you know, get you into the mood of the Games. Shall we continue?"

"No, n-no. I think, I-I think I'm good."

I lay the hammer on the ground and turn away slowly, trying not to upset my stomach any more. Peecy's eyes are focused on me, as though she knows what's coming and is just waiting to see how long it'll take before I break.

The answer is: not long. I make it another two steps away from the hammer station before I fall to my knees and vomit onto the floor.

* * *

><p><strong>ARBOR KRAWP, 14, DISTRICT 11<strong>

The District 12 boy is quickly whisked away and his sick cleaned up, but the surprises for training aren't over yet. About forty-five minutes before we'll finally be allowed to return to our rooms, a newcomer is thrown into our midst by a burly female Peacekeeper, who brusquely announces, "Lee Tuss, seventeen, District Eleven."

"Ah, yes, thank you." It's the first time I've heard the man with the black eyes speak. He's risen from his chair, staring intently at the new boy before addressing the rest of us. "Tributes, meet the newest addition to the Games, the replacement male tribute for Eleven." The Head Gamemaker smiles, but it's not a warm smile; there's a nasty edge to it. "Welcome, Mr. Tuss. Glad you could finally join us. Tributes, resume training. You have forty-five minutes left."

Everyone slowly stops staring at the new guy—Lee—and goes back to whatever they were doing before. I analyse him longer, taking in his dark skin, his close-cut hair, his solid frame. He's not someone I know, but that doesn't mean anything; after all, 11's a big district. I mean, I'd never met Kale until a few days ago. And now he's . . .

_Don't think about it. Concentrate on the string. Hook the right index finger under the string across your left palm. Stretch it out a few centimetres and twirl the loop twice. Pull your hands apart. Now—_

"Arbor Krawp?"

I glance up and jump; Lee Tuss is standing right in front of me, his expression nervous as he stares down at me. Slowly, I nod. "Yeah."

He nods in return and, after a moment, sits as well, mimicking my cross-legged position on the ground. His eyes are darting all around the gym, from tribute to tribute, widening as he finds each one. "I don't believe this," he murmurs, staring as the boy from 1 annihilates a training dummy with his giant sword. "I just don't believe this. How are you all so calm?" he asks, attention turning back to me. "How have you all accepted this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Um, _this_. The Hunger Games. Training to kill each other. I mean, didn't a kid _die _last night? How is no one freaking out?"

_Pretty sure everyone is on the inside. _I don't want to seem weak though, so all I say is, "You missed that. The Twelve boy threw up a few hours ago. They took him away."

"The Twelve guy?" Lee raises his eyebrow incredulously. "You mean the one who killed Kale?"

You could say that. Or you could say it was his partner's fault for prompting him to attack us. Or you could say it was the 3 kids' fault for not steering their chariot away from Kale. Or you could say it was my fault for asking Kale to take the lance when I knew he was unstable.

"It wasn't his fault," I tell Lee. "It wasn't anyone's fault. " _Please, please understand it wasn't my fault._

"I can think of a few people to blame," Lee mutters with a glance at the Head Gamemakers on their balcony. "Seriously, is no one upset with the Capitol about this?"

"You're way behind the times. Pair from 4, girls from 6 and 8, they've been pretty vocal about their hate for the Capitol. Were given some colourful bruises. That's discouraged most people."

"Ah. Still, I wouldn't have guessed you would all so willingly go along with this."

"I wouldn't say anyone's going along willingly, except maybe that guy from 1 and the pair from 2."

"What are you doing then?" Lee gestures to the string in my hand. "Aren't you learning to tie knots to prepare for these crazy Games?"

"Nope. I'm playing string games." I hold up my work. "See? Witch's broom."

He takes in the stringing weaving back and forth across my fingers for a moment, then breaks into a quiet chuckle. String games are a popular pastime in 11, mostly because you don't need any money to do them. No one escapes their childhood without learning how to do Jacob's ladder, at least.

"Wow. Very nice." Lee snickers again, then suddenly his happiness drops, and he moans quietly, putting a hand to his head. "Oh Panem, what even is my life anymore?"

"It is a pretty big change," I say, unravelling the string from my fingers. "You've gotta get used to rolling with it. How'd they get you here?"

"I was on a walk last night, and some Peacekeepers caught me and dragged me into their hovercraft. We got here about fifteen minutes ago." He groans into his hand. "Man, it sounds crazy. How can this actually be happening?"

I frown sympathetically. I mean, the reapings were bad enough, but getting kidnapped in the middle of the night by those scary Peacekeepers? No wonder Lee's going through a bit of a crisis. Maybe that's why he sought me out; even if we've never met, being from the same district automatically gives us something in common, something for him to cling to in the midst of the chaos that is his life now.

I think for a moment before arranging the string across my fingers and holding my hands out to him. "Cat's cradle?" I ask, smiling slightly. "You need two people for it, and I've been boring myself sick making brooms and ladders for the past few hours."

The despairing look in his eyes lessens slightly, and after a few seconds, he grins. "Sure."

We start to play, going through the repetitive motions of the children's game, but I can tell Lee isn't fully focused on it—probably still worrying about the Hunger Games. "Look, I know it seems kind of scary," I say as he makes the X figure across his hands. I grab the string and turn it into the train tracks design. "But you just have to accept it. I know it sucks, but trying to fight back isn't going to help."

"Never been one for fighting back," he mutters, pinching the string between his fingers. "Used to dream I was like that, but I think it's pretty obvious I'm not now. I'm no hero. But that doesn't mean there aren't other ways of getting out of this."

He finishes the cat's cradle figure and waits for me to continue the game, but I'm frozen by his words.  
>"What exactly do you mean?"<p>

"You ever read any spy novels, Arbor?"

"Don't be stupid." I can see where he's going with this, and it's ridiculous. Isn't it? "We'd never make it."

"You think we're really going to make it in the Hunger Games?"

I raise my eyes to his and am surprised to see the same fear I feel reflected in his gaze. It's always weird to see someone older than you looking so vulnerable. I guess be you thirteen or seventeen, the prospect of dying in a deadly arena at the hands of another murderous teenager is pretty terrifying. Who can blame Lee for wanting an out, even if he is deluding himself?

_Is _he deluding himself though? No one's tried sneaking away thus far; they're all too concerned with letting the Capitol know how deep their hatred runs. 11 is one of the most unobtrusive districts, even with all that's happened to Kale and Lee. No one pays us any attention. Would they really notice any attempts at escape on our part?

Even if they did, what would they do? Clearly it's a hassle for them to replace tributes, so they likely wouldn't kill us. Hinder us in the Games maybe, but in all honesty, I don't think we have much of a shot either way. What more could they do to us if we fail?

And if we succeed . . . well, the rewards for that are beyond compare.

"Okay." Lee looks up, confused about my sudden, whispered outburst. I nod firmly. "Spy novels. Getting out of this. Let's do it."

"Really?" Lee grins. "_Yes_. All right, I've already got a plan too. By the time the Games roll around, we'll be long gone."


	12. Down With the Capitol!

_**Sorry it's taken so long for me to update - it's that time of year with exams and projects :P I'm glad I got this done though! Warning for this chapter in the form of the last POV (Elegance's). Basically Elegance's POV = sexual themes, so that's always something to watch out for :) **_

_**Oh, and I have another SYOT recommendation for anyone reading this! All the World's a Stage SYOT by PenMagic. Go check it out and submit a tribute! **_

_**Anyways, hope you enjoy this chapter and thanks for reading!**_

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><p><strong>MIKAEL RASAUF, 18, DISTRICT 3<strong>

I've always hated elevators. Or, as I like to call them, hellish-awkward-moment-creators.

"So . . ."I say slowly, leaning against the wall opposite Peecy. Conversation with my thirteen-year-old district partner is uncomfortable as hell, but it's better than the pressing weight of silence.

Of course, she doesn't respond to me. Hasn't said a word since two nights ago, when we ran over . . . when Kale died. I know she thinks it's her fault; after all, I think it's mine. I've got a feeling the pair from 12 and the boy's partner, Arbor, are feeling the same way.

But I don't want to let Peecy shut herself away from others because of that. When I was thirteen, my mother—my hero—died, and I completely closed myself to the world. What do I have to show for it now? No home, no family, and the only friends I'd finally opened myself up to have been shot and dumped in two of many unmarked graves back in 3. Oh, and also I'm stuck in a competition where I have to fight to the death with twenty-three other teenagers.

"Look," I start again. I don't know why it's so important for me to get through to Peecy, but it pains me to see such a young kid struggling with such a harsh burden alone. "I know you must feel like crap after what happened, and I'm not gonna tell you to get over it, 'cause I know that's impossible. Sure, what happened wasn't your fault in any way, but me saying that won't stop you thinking it. Still, I just wanted to say . . . I mean, you don't need to do this."

For the first time in a while, she looks at me, and the desolate fog clouding her warm, green eyes clears slightly. "This?" she echoes uncertainly.

Well, I've got her talking; that's a good sign, right? "You know, the silence. The excluding yourself from everyone. That kind of thing."

She continues to stare blankly at me, and I start to worry I've lost her again until she laughs. It's a quiet giggle with a sad edge to it, but still it raises my hopes. "What?" I ask.

"You're such a hypocrite."

"Come again?"

"'The silence. The excluding yourself from everyone. That kind of thing,'" she mimics, but not rudely. Almost as a younger sister would tease her older brother. "That's all _you _ever do, so don't you call me black, Mr. Pot."

"Oh, come on. I don't do that."

"Really? The only time I've seen you talk to someone so far is with those two girls when we first got here. But then Elanie walked away and you haven't been close to anyone since." She sighs. "I was kind of sad, actually, when she left you. Elanie, I mean."

"Why?"

Peecy shrugs. "I dunno. I guess I thought you guys made a good team. You both seem kind of similar and I just . . . I mean, I think you could use a friend." She meets my gaze again, and I get the feeling I'm staring into the eyes of someone a lot older than thirteen. "You're lonely, aren't you? Beneath all that prickly nerd exterior?"

"I'm prickly nerd through and through, thank you very much." Still, I can't entirely brush off her words. "Why would you think I'm lonely?"

"I heard about what happened to the Doss boys. You guys were close, weren't you? I'm sorry," she murmurs as I look away. "And years ago, I remember hearing about your mom too. Thyris Rasauf, right? Head of that huge computer programming corporation? My parents used to work there—they were devastated when she passed."

The sadness in Peecy's eyes is impossible to miss. "Something tells my you're no stranger to loneliness either."

"Well, they say it takes one to know one." She sighs. "Maybe we should both get some friends."

"What's the point, if we're both going to be dead in a few days?"

"Maybe that _is _the point. I mean, I don't know about you, but I'd rather not spend any more time alone, especially if these are possibly my last days alive."

With that, the elevator doors slide open, admitting us into the training gym. The movement startles me; I'd almost entirely forgotten where we are.

"So then," I murmur to Peecy as we step out of the elevator. "What are you going to do today?"

She glances around. Some of the tributes still have yet to arrive, but most are down here already. Of course the pair from 2 and the boy from 1 are already at the stations, but the kids from 9, 10 and 11 are milling around too. The boy from 8 is nearly obscured from view, crouching low behind the fake trees set up to practice climbing. A few metres away, the girl from 12 sits at the shelter station once more. I glance around the gym for her partner, wondering if the Capitol is really cruel enough to make a kid who was throwing up yesterday still train today.

Yep, there he is—honestly, I'm not even surprised. He looks better though, albeit a bit peaky as he leans against the back wall for support.

Peecy's gaze has landed on him as well, and I'm shocked to see her lips quirk up in what is unmistakably a small smile. After the events with Kale, I didn't think she'd ever look happy again.

"He was nice to me," she says. "The boy from Twelve. Winze. I think he's a bit lonely too—I mean, his partner doesn't seem interested in him at all." Her smile warms as she watches the boy. "So maybe I will make a friend today. What about you?"

"Probably more of what I was doing yesterday." In other words, avoid the other tributes and try to entertain myself with the one, lame technology station there is.

"I think you should try to make a friend too," Peecy says. "Besides, your spot's kind of taken."

I glance over at the tech station and, sure enough, there sits the girl from 9, frowning as she rifles through one of the textbooks. Peecy smiles knowingly and waves goodbye before heading off in the 12 guy's direction. Unsure what to do, I stay frozen in place for a few moments, watching as she approaches him with an outstretched hand. At first, the kid looks shocked, but his expression quickly melts into a kind smile. Even I can't help but grin slightly; yeah, they'll get along just fine.

Something else tugs at my heartstrings besides second-hand happiness that my district partner has found a friend. It couldn't be . . . longing, could it? I'm not really great at the whole "friend" thing; even with Vector and Conny, I treated them more as co-workers than close companions. I thought it was better that way—you're less hurt when they leave you if you don't get too attached in the first place. With the Hunger Games looming over my head, that unforgettable "only one survives" rule replaying over and over in my brain, I don't know if I could ever make a friend here.

Yet my feet are still taking me over to the tech station and Elanie Hobbert. For once, my heart has wrested control of my body from my brain.

I stop a few feet from her, waiting for her to notice me. She doesn't seem to, so I cough once before muttering an awkward, "Hey."

That gets her to glance up from the book she was reading. We make eye contact before she looks behind her, searching for something. Her eyes are wide with surprise as she turns back to me. "Wait, you're talking to _me_? Me, Elanie Hobbert, the untrustworthy, manipulative bitch?"

All right, yes, I was expecting a bit of attitude, but this isn't fair. "Hey, I never said anything like that," I reply defensively. "And come on, you can't fault me for being cautious in a place like this after I'd just had a conversation with, well . . ."

I nod to Elegance Lamoore, who has just gracefully tossed her head back to giggle at whatever stupid thing the boy from 10 said.

Elanie follows my gaze and sighs. "Queen Manipulative Bitch. Yeah, I get it." She looks down at the book, crumpling the corner of the page between her fingers. "I suppose I owe you an apology as much as you owe me one."

"Why don't we call it even?" I ask, holding out my hand to shake.

She looks surprised, but takes my hand all the same. "Deal."

An awkward moment of silence passes after our handshake, during which I try desperately to come up with something else to say. I can practically see the gears turning in Elanie's mind as she does the same, but after coming up blank, she turns back to her book.

"What are you reading?" I ask for lack of anything better to say.

She shrugs. "Some book on radio waves. There's not much here, to be honest. The Capitol doesn't seem to think technological knowledge will help much if that boy from 1 comes running at you with a sword."

I glance over at said tribute just in time to see him cleanly decapitate a training dummy. Fake blood spurts out of the wound to let him know just how well he did.

My throat seems very dry all of a sudden as I turn back to Elanie. "For once, the Capitol might actually be right." I repress a shudder and sit down next to the Niner. "So, what are you so interested in radios for?"

Immediately, the cheeky frown and aura of attitude returns. "What do you care? Thought you didn't want to work together."

"Say I'm reconsidering my answer." Her eyes light up immediately, and I have to raise a hand to slow her anticipation. "Just say I was. Then I'd want to know everything. I don't care how secretive you want to be, I want to know exactly what I'm signing up for before I agree to help you out. No secrets, Nine. You understand?"

She nods eagerly. "Yes, yes, of course. I mean, hell, what does it matter if I might be dead soon anyways? Okay, so everything you need to know." She takes a deep breath. "I guess I should start by telling you I'm not exactly from Nine . . ."

* * *

><p><strong>AELIA CASSIONUS, 15, DISTRICT 2<strong>

After two hours of swinging swords around, I have to excuse myself from Vitus's company. For one, my arms are _killing _me, and I was already stiff enough this morning as was. Also, swordplay can actually get kind of boring if you do it long enough.

Then there's the fact that I can't fully forget how in _three_ _days_, the training dummies in front of us will become living, breathing kids. I don't know how Vitus can get past that. Actually, I don't think the idea's fully occurred to him; he's kind of a moron.

But a good district partner and, dare I say friend, nonetheless. Now that I'm wandering the gym without him, I've got absolutely no idea what to do. None of the other stations are sticking out to me, and the tributes, well . . .

They hate us, Vitus and me. It couldn't be more obvious. The glares thrown our way, the muttered insults, the constant birds being flipped (yeah, 4 guy, I see you scratching your head with your middle finger. Oh no, I'm _so _insulted). It didn't bother me at first; I mean, whatever, haters gonna hate, right? But now that these Games seem so close (_three_ frickin' _days_), I'm getting nervous. More than nervous—I'm terrified these kids are going to kill me.

And for what? 2 fighting with the Capitol in the war? All right, admittedly the whole betrayal thing was kind of a dick move, but hey, it was the _smart _one. I mean, I've seen how the Peacekeepers handle the other tributes, and I've caught news about executions and beatings when watching Capitol TV. But they love us. Well, okay, maybe not love, but we're treated _way _better than the other kids. Fighting against the Capitol's all well and good, but I like to keep myself intact and unbruised, thank you very much.

Problem is, that might not be a possibility in the Games. I know we're going to be targeted immediately; our only advantage is Vitus and I are learning how to fight together, while all the rebellious tributes are alone and unskilled. The pair from 4 have banded together, but they haven't touched a station yet. I'm a bit nervous about the pair from 6 and the girl from 8, but they've spent all their time in a corner whispering, so they don't seem like a huge threat. As long as no one unites all the rebels, Vitus and I should hopefully be all right when the time comes for these blasted Games.

Except for the fact that only one of us can live, but I'm choosing not to worry about that yet. Vitus thinks the Capitol will let that rule slide for us, since we were their allies in the war, and I'm desperately clinging to the belief that he's right.

In the meantime, as much as it scares the crap out of me, my brain is saying I should be trying to make friends with the other tributes. I need to show them I'm not a representative of a traitorous district, I'm just a fifteen-year-old girl with hopes and dreams and feelings like them. Sounds cheesy, I know, but if they realise that, maybe they won't be so eager to kill me when the time comes.

I've got to pick my targets carefully though. Obviously the pairs from 4 and 6 are out, as is the girl from 8. Pair from 1 give me a creepy feeling, so that's a no go. The Threeks have already made friends, and anyways, they're either too old or too young for me to comfortably chat with them. 5 boy is nuts, that's a definite nope. His partner's a possibility—apparently her dad helped blow up 13 or something, so the rebels probably aren't that fond of her—but she's only thirteen, too young to really make a difference if those monstrous eighteen-year-olds decide to come for me. 7 girl's too young as well, and her partner seems way too solitary for friends. 8 guy is weird. 9 guy seems like too much of a rebel. 10 kids are old and intimidating. 11 . . .

Well, what about 11? The boy's new—I don't know much besides his name's Lee and he's seventeen—and Arbor's a year younger than me, but neither seem like rebels or haters of 2. In fact, they're probably more upset with the other districts like 3 and 12, since they both had a hand in Kale's death. Besides, both tributes are at the rope tying station, which is well away from all the other kids giving me the evil eye. _Worth a shot._

I tentatively start walking towards their station, waiting for the moment where they turn around and start yelling insults. It doesn't come; I make it all the way over to their station without incident. They don't even look up when I come to a stop beside them. Maybe there's still some hope.

I sit on the ground beside them, bracing myself for objections, but when none come, I pick up the nearest string of rope and set of instructions to start practicing. Hell, without the ally possibilities, this stations is probably a good one to check out anyways. Never know when rope might come in handy.

We sit in silence for a while, methodically tying rope until I get stuck on something called the reef knot. It's a technique to join to separate lines together, and the ropes keep slipping away. I curse inwardly at yet another failed attempt and glance up to find Arbor practicing the same knot, getting it perfect each time. Without realising it, I stop trying to follow the instructions and instead mimic her actions, but she's going too fast for me to keep up. Man, her fingers are practically flying across the rope.

"I can slow down, if you want."

I jump at the words and look up from the Arbor's hands to find her staring at me, a small smile on her face. Her partner raises his gaze as well, staring at me as though he's only just noticed there's someone sitting next to him.

"Uh, no, no, that's fine." I glance at the mess of ropes in my hand and toss them on the ground. "I think it's a lost cause with this one."

Arbor picks up the discarded strands. "You were using ropes with two different diameters," she explains, holding them up for me to see. "The reef knot's tougher that way. Try these two instead."

She hands me two ropes she was working with, and, after a moment of hesitation, I take them from her. "Um, thanks."

"No problem."

Okay, this is too weird. The most I was hoping for when I walked over here was tributes who wouldn't hate me; Arbor's kindness has blown my expectations out of the water. "Sorry, but I have to ask," I begin, fidgeting nervously with the ropes in my grip. "Do you . . . I mean, you don't . . . hate me?"

"Why would we hate you?" Lee asks.

"Well, I'm from Two."

He raises an eyebrow like this is new information for him and shoots a questioning glance Arbor's way, but she doesn't stop smiling. "Right, I keep forgetting you're kind of new," she says to him. "Lee, this is Aelia Cassionus from District 2." Her cheeks redden slightly. "Sorry to introduce you. Must seem kind of weird that I know your full name and we've never even talked before."

"Nah. I mean, I know the same about you—the Capitol's been broadcasting our names enough." I glance at Lee sympathetically. "Heard on the TV that you basically were kidnapped in the middle of the night for this. That sucks, man."

"Uh, yeah," he says distractedly, still staring at Arbor with his eyebrows raised. "Yeah, it does."

"You must have been home to watch the chariot rides then," Arbor says to him. I notice she tenses slightly as she speaks, but she continues regardless. "So you saw Aelia and Vitus's fantastic win, right? You guys really were amazing," she adds, glancing at me. "You definitely deserve that suite on the _first_ floor."

"Wow, um, thanks!" This encounter couldn't be more different from how I'd thought it would go. "And, uh, I totally don't think it's fair you guys lost."

"That's okay. It does kind of suck though, having such small rooms on the _twelfth _floor."

I do notice the emphasis she's putting on the floor numbers, and I'm about to ask what she means when Lee's eyes widen suddenly, and he nods almost imperceptibly. Weird—maybe it's an 11 thing?

I decide it's best not to ask—don't want to scare away the first tributes I've come across who _don't _hate me with stupid questions. Instead, I decide it's best to try and be self-deprecating. "Still, the whole race really wasn't fair," I say earnestly. "I mean, I doubt anyone outside of Two has ever done chariot racing before. It was biased from the start, and I feel awful about participating in it."

"Sure," Lee murmurs, but once again he doesn't seem focused on what he's saying. He's still staring at Arbor, and I've got a feeling some sort of unspoken communication is going on between the two of them before Lee straightens and his eyes meet mine.

"Hey, you know what? We should team up."

Those words are so stunning coming from an outer-district kid's mouth that for a moment, all I can do is stare. "W-what?"

"Yeah, like an alliance," Arbor says enthusiastically. "A lot of other kids seem to be doing it. And I think we'd make a great team. I mean, Lee and I have a lot of like, plant knowledge and stuff coming from Eleven, and Aelia, you can fight and defend us, right?"

"W-well, I'm not amazing or anything—"

"Don't be so humble. I've seen you at that sword station, you seem great." Arbor smiles. "So, what do you say?"

I-I don't know _what _to say. I mean, an alliance with these kids? That's beyond what I could have dreamed of, and yet, at the same time, it makes things so complicated. Vitus and I have never come out and said it, but we've been sticking together for the past few days out of loyalty to 2. Does that make us a team? But it would be really good to have allies who _aren't_ from 2; maybe that way the other tributes wouldn't think of me as the enemy.

Even before my mind has come to the conclusion, I find myself stuttering out, "S-sure. If you want me—let's do it."

Both Elevians beam at me, and after a moment, I smile back. This is a good thing; _yeah_, this is a good thing. I have allies! I have friends! I have tributes who don't want to squeeze the air from my lungs and bathe in my blood! Hallelujah, my friends—Aelia Cassionus might actually survive these Games.

* * *

><p><strong>ALOI EMATRASEAM, 15, DISTRICT 12<strong>

"It's the colour of her hair throwing you off, right? Tell me about it—blue is _so _three years ago."

It's kind of funny to watch the boy from 8 jump a foot in the air at the sound of my voice. His shock is so intense, it's comical as he skitters away from the base of the fake tree.

I swing my legs back and forth, raising the hand not gripping the branch to wave at the Eighti. "Hi."

"W-who . . . w-w-who . . . w-who . . ."

"Calm down, boy. You sound like an owl having a fit." I slide from the branch of the tree I'd scurried up and land gracefully on my feet, dropping immediately into a little curtsey. _Oh yeah, Aloi. _That _was smooth. _I could be a ballerina. Actually, let's face it, I could be a lot of amazing things.

The boy is still staring like a dear in headlights, but now there's a bit of confusion mixed in with the shock and horror. I suppose I might as well introduce myself, even though there's no way any of these tributes don't know my name.

"Aloi Maraunia-Leslia Ematraseam," I say with a flourish. "From District Twelve. I implore you not to judge me by that fact though. And you're Mack Ramaye, aren't you? From District Eight?"

Yes, bizarre that I care enough to remember his real name, isn't it? But this boy if from _8_, after all. I always believed that was my spirit district, where I was destined to live; after all, the highest fashion in Panem all comes from 8. Unfortunately, fate placed me in District 12 to see how I would fare in the face of adversity. I did my time, spent fifteen long years toiling away in that grimy hellhole, and still I accomplished marvellous things. Now I have one last obstacle to overcome (whatever the Hunger Games entails), and then I'll be free! Free to live my life as I see fit; which is why I need to get close to these 8 kids and see if their district has an immigration or transfer policy.

I may have picked the wrong one to speak to, though. The boy's obviously some kind of crazy; he's spent his whole day so far hiding behind these fake trees and peering worriedly out at Daelianne Botterwurth, who sits like a queen on her throne in the balcony above us. Perhaps Mack's district partner is more level-headed . . . but she just seems so _boring_. Always talking with those kids from 6, looking so serious. The creative, stylish genes of 8 must have skipped her.

Which leaves me with this trembling teenage boy who looks like he might _finally _be gaining the courage to speak. "W-w-what do you w-want?"

"Listen, Mack, I respect you, being from Eight and all. And my respect is hard to come by—I'll have you know I have _very_ high standards when it comes to choosing who I associate myself with. I've deemed you worthy, which is a tremendous honour that you'd be a fool to turn down, so let's just seal the deal already, huh?"

I delicately lay my hand in the air, waiting for him to take it and shake. He doesn't; dear Panem, please don't let him be as stupid as Dawson or my district partner.

"D-d-d-deal?"

What is it with me always meeting slow people? Opposites attract, I suppose—perhaps my enormous brain is like a beacon of salvation to all the idiots of this world.

"Yes, a deal," I enunciate carefully, waiting for him to get it. "To be a team. Allies. Co-workers. Comrades."

"H-huh?"

Oh for goodness sake. "Look around you, Mack," I say, sweeping my arms out to gesture around the room. "Everyone's getting in on it. My district partner and the girl from Three. The pair from Four. The girl from Nine and the guy from Three. The pair from Eleven and the girl from Two. Look at your district partner, even _she's _part of a team."

I glance over in her direction and fall silent. Zibeline Tassle is making her way over to us right now, following the girl from 6 while the little twelve-year-old trails behind Mack's district partner. What do they want—to recruit me, perhaps? Hmm, I can see that working in my favour; maybe I don't need Mr. Hysterics after all . . .

"You're Private Mack Ramaye, yes?" The girl from 6 comes to a stop in front of us, staring down at Mack (who's still sitting on the floor like a child). "Soldier of Squad 8-11, correct?"

Mack flinches, and his back straightens immediately. "Yes, ma'am."

The girl's grin widens; she likes the formal titles, evidently. I cross my arms with an indignant sniff—ooh, smell that? Yep, that's ego in the air. Ugh, if there's one thing I hate, it's narcissists. And hypocrites. But that's besides the point.

"How would you like to fight for the rebels once again?"

I can barely restrain myself from snorting. I mean, is she even _looking_ at this kid? He's clearly done enough "fighting" to last a lifetime.

But surprisingly, he hesitates before answering, instead of uttering a swift and stern, "No" to her face.

"Mack." Zibeline steps forwards, her usually serious expression softening as she helps her district partner to his feet. "Do you know who this is? This is _Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer_, one of the greatest rebel leaders in Six. She's going to bring down the Capitol, once and for all." Zibeline puts a hand on Mack's shoulder. "But she needs our help. Will you join us?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey!" Sure, this "bringing down the Capitol and saving the districts" crap is, well, crap, but if there's going to be an alliance then I will _not _be sidelined. I'm smart enough to know the only way to win these Games is with a team, and the 8 tributes were my only choices. "We were making an alliance first!"

Zibeline raises an eyebrow, as though she's just taken note of my presence (the _nerve_. As if anyone could ignore me). Lillian-Districthero—or whatever—puts a hand on the 8 girl's shoulder as she looks me up and down. "Well, we can always use more support," she muses. "_If _you're loyal to the cause. How do you feel about the Capitol?"

I shrug. "Meh."

"The districts?"

"Dunno about yours, but mine's kind of gross."

"The rebels?"

"You mean the shit-starters?"

I swear to you, on normal occasions a refined person such as myself would _never _use such foul language, but I can't seem to help it around this girl. Something about Miss Save The World ticks me off, and I don't know what it is, but I can tell it'll spell doom for her unsuspecting allies. Luckily I am not so obtuse.

"You don't seem very committed," Zibeline grumbles, narrowing her eyes at me.

"What does it matter?" I ask, staring directly into Lucy-Destruction's eyes and addressing solely her. "I mean, you're not _really_ looking for rebels, are you? You want followers for the peacetimes and cannon fodder for the war. I hate taking orders as much as the next naturally-born-leader, but I suppose I can do what I'm told if it aids my survival."

The supposed "rebel leader" doesn't flinch at my words, but Zibeline looks about ready to spit fire. "_Cannon fodder_?" she repeats angrily, her tanned cheeks flaring red. "_Cannon_—how _dare_ you speak to Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer like that? Do you know how many men and women she's seen die, and you have the _nerve_ to refer to them as—"

"Zibeline, it's all right." Lena-Deceit pats her enraged minion on the back; her eyes, however, never leave mine. "The kid's young. She doesn't know what she's talking about."

_And _you _do? Did you see 12 burn before we even declared war on the Capitol, all because the other districts were getting unruly, and we were the easiest to make an example of? Did you hear the people scream when the bombs dropped on 13 and the shockwaves devastated our district? Do you see how the Peacekeepers treat us every day, even though we did nothing more than follow the orders _your people _gave us?_

But I don't say anything. I sure won't suck up to Miss Top Dog if that's what she wants, but I'm not going to make pointless enemies either. I'm smarter than that.

Leah-Devastation is still watching me, and I get the feeling she's evaluating whether or not I can be useful enough for my attitude to be worth it. I already know the answer; I mean, it's not like she's got many willing followers to choose from.

And I do want to ally with these people, oddly enough. They make a tough team, and it's way better to have their fighting skills at my side than against me. Dislike them or no, they'll get me further in the long run. Eventually, though, their weak link will bring them down. And no, the weak link is not the shy twelve-year-old, or the traumatised seventeen-year-old. I'm looking at her right now.

"All right," Lindsey-Deception says, breaking the silence with a smile. "We'll take you. If someone wants to join the cause, who am I to stop them? No matter how, er, differently they show their loyalty. But just so you know," she continues, leaning closer to me. "I'll be watching you."

I cross my arms, unimpressed. "Everyone will be watching me. This is all televised."

The girl smiles. "Touché." She claps her hands, addressing all her followers now. "All right, huddle up, everyone. We've got enough members back us to execute my plan."

* * *

><p><strong>LARA-DORSA TUPPENHEIMER, 18, DISTRICT 6<strong>

By the time lunch is announced, we're ready. Following the other tributes out to the cafeteria space across from the gym, I choose our table at the front of the room before we sit and wait. The kids who aren't part of our alliance shuffle around listlessly, getting in line to receive their meal for the day._ How many of you, _I wonder, eyeing each one who lines up by the counter. _How many of you will join us before the day's end?_

Finally, all the tributes get their food and retreat to their seats, most choosing to sit as far away from the others as possible. Not to worry; by the end of our meal period, I'll unite them.

"Now," I whisper to my supporters. They nod and, as one, rise from their seats to stand in front of our table. Zibeline's the only one who looks impressive doing it; the 12 girl, Ematraseam, has far too much attitude and both Fender and Mack are a bit shaky, but it'll do. The members that make up an army don't matter—it's having the army that counts. Now that I finally do, I can begin the plan I'd been forming ever since I arrived in the Capitol

"Tributes," I say in greeting, hopping up on the table to tower above my followers and everyone else in the room. All eyes go too me—_excellent_.

Smiling, I start to pace the length of the rectangular table, allowing casual charisma to seep into my gate. "Do you all know what a tribute means, really?" I ask, putting on a mock-thoughtful expression. "Odd word to use for a bunch of kids, huh? I know Threeks are renowned for their intelligence, care to help me out, Mikael?"

_Come across as personable, relatable, all the while exuding confidence. Compliment the other districts. Use first names of tributes to establish connections, show you care about them._

The boy from 3 looks caught off guard to be singled out, but he clears his throat and answers all the same. "Er, well, a tribute is a kind of gift, given in acknowledgement of gratitude or esteem. Or a sum paid by one sovereign to another in acknowledgement of subjugation."

"Ooh, I like that last one. Thank you, Mikael." The boy adjusts his glasses, obviously flustered; _always throw in compliments when you can. _

"That's a neat definition, isn't it?" I continue, making eye contact with each of the tributes as I pace atop the table. "A sum paid in acknowledgement of _subjugation_. I suppose, when you think about it, it's quite appropriate. Our homes, our people, they gave us up to reassure the Panem's president that they were the Capitol's willing slaves once again."

"That's not true," the boy from 4 pipes up hotly. "They didn't do it willingly—they had no choice!"

I smile—_exactly as planned. _"You're right, Hal, thank you for that statement. They _didn't _do it willingly, did they? Why would they? They don't want their children to die. But they had no choice. Does anyone know what would have happened if they'd refused the Capitol's demands?"

I was going to call on Ematraseam's district partner for this one, but the girl from 5 speaks up first. "They would have been bombed," she whispers. "Like Thirteen."

"Precisely. A terrible fate, one no district deserves. Now tell me, is this a good world to live in? A world where you're forced to do whatever the stronger power says or face total destruction?"

"No." This from the 9 boy.

"Then why not fight back? For yourselves and for your districts. Your friends, your family back home, they _need _you to stand up! Are you going to let them down?"

A malicious laugh comes from the back of the room—the boy from 5, of course. Obviously this interruption wasn't a part of my plan, but it was an obstacle I had foreseen.

"You just said retribution leads to, you know, kaboom!" He sneers, sinking further into his shadowy corner. "Now you want us to _fight_ the Capitol?"

"What more can they do to you? They're sending you to your deaths, they've stripped away everything you love, and now they're trying to get rid of your humanity too, by forcing you to kill one another in their sickening Games. But it doesn't have to be like this. Stand up to them! Join me and my friends, who have made a pact not to hurt any true district citizens." My eyes flit to the pair from 2 before continuing, "Refuse to play by the Capitol's rules! They don't own the game, and they haven't won it either. There is still hope for the war! Down with the Capitol! Long live the districts! Who's with us?"

I'd anticipated a moment of hesitance, but the boy from 4 stands almost immediately; this is going even better than I planned! He weaves his way between the tables and chairs, his district partner following close behind until they both come to a stop in front of me and my companions.

"I will," the boy says fiercely, then, with a sidelong glance at his district partner, adds, "_We_ will. You've got the support of Hal Ibbit and Anne Emony behind you."

"And Miller Sorgum," the boy from 9 says, shooting up from his spot and wincing at the quick movement. "The Capitol can't be allowed to continue like this."

"I'll join too," comes a quiet voice, and I'm surprised to see the girl from 5 standing. "Caidi Iyaun," she says shyly, taking up a spot beside Miller. "I had no part in the war, but my father . . . well, my father chose the wrong side. I don't wish to make the same mistake."

"An admirable goal." I nod enthusiastically. "Anyone else? Elegance, what about you? I heard on the television you did a fair bit of Capitolite-poisoning during One's occupation, we could really use someone like you."

The girl glances lazily up at me, the first time she's done so during the entire break. She gives a little, cutesy giggle that has an odd edge of malice to it. "Oh, no thank you. I'm not the kind of person you want in your alliance. I only want peace."

"That's what we want as well."

"Is it?" She raises an eyebrow, giving me a patronising smile. "Is it really?"

I'm not sure how to respond to that, so instead I jump to the boy sitting next to her. "What about you, Sable? You seem like the rebellious type."

He snorts. "Not the way you're thinking. I don't do noble causes."

"And your district partner? Fasica, I've noticed you seem to have a grudge against one of our Head Gamemakers."

From her isolated corner, she grunts, "Grudge, sure. Death wish, no. I'm not looking to make trouble and get murdered."

"Elanie, Azimuth, Winze? Your district partners are in on this and you could be too."

The boy from 5 snorts. "Last fucking thing I need is to be fucked by more fucking rebels. You surprise me, Ramaye. I'd figured you'd had enough of the torture war brings."

Mack flinches. I can't have one of my soldiers losing faith, so I quickly ignore Azimuth and turn my gaze on Elanie, waiting for her answer. Her face says it all before she even opens her mouth.

"No thanks," she says, glaring at Caidi Iyaun before turning firmly away. She locks eyes with Mikael, who nods.

"We're both out," he confirms.

On the other side of the room, Winze looks to his District 3 companion, a silent discussion passing between them. After a moment, he glances from Aloi to me before staring sheepishly at his lap. "Um, l-likewise for us. Sorry."

"Seven?" I ask, a last-ditch effort. "You've been quiet. Huon, Sequoia, how about you?"

The boy merely shakes his head. The girl stares up at me with wide, watering eyes. "Why do we always have to fight?"

I smile down at her. "We fight for peace. We fight so that one day our ancestors can live without fear. Trust me, when the day comes where need for war has gone, I will gladly lay down my weapons. But today is not that day."

I glance around at the tributes, the ones amassed in front of me and the ones still sitting at their tables. I've yet to call on a few of them, but I know a lost cause when I see one. Elegance's district partner gives off an unsettling vibe, the Twovians are obviously unforgivable and the pair from 11 seem to have allied themselves with the girl from 2. I don't know what's going through their heads, but I can't allow people who associate with the likes of her within my ranks.

"This is it, then," I say, gesturing to the kids before me. "The districts' army. We may be small, we may be young, but we are strong!" The boy from 4 cheers and, after a moment, so do the others. "We will stand up to the Capitol and all that they stand for!" More cheers. "And we will bring them down because we. Are. Unconquerable!"

The cafeteria erupts with shouts from my followers, the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands. I take a deep breath, unable to keep a wide grin off my face. This is just like back in 6, where hundreds of devotees surrounded me, applauding and cheering my name. They were so completely and utterly committed to the cause, and more so, to me. They would have _died _for me. And so would these kids. Let me tell you, knowing that, it's _exhilarating._

* * *

><p><strong>ELEGANCE LAMOORE, 17, DISTRICT 1<strong>

I stay in the gym showers long after everyone else has left, enjoying the feeling of warm water seeping over my skin. We've got facilities on our floor as well—an enormous Jacuzzi, as a matter of fact, always heated to just the right temperature—but I felt the need to wash myself immediately after training. Besides, this way I can be sure I won't have to deal with any of the other tributes in the elevator. Yesterday I was stuck in there with the new boy from 11, and dear Panem, the _griping_. I nearly snapped his neck then and there. Honestly, if I have to hear one more "Boohoo, why did it have to be _me_", the Capitol won't have to wait for the Games to start seeing some murders.

_Tock._

I freeze. That sound—barely audible over the shower, but I know it was the door closing. But the last girl left ages ago; did someone come back, for something forgotten, perhaps? Bullshit, what is there to forget? We don't have anything but our clothes.

Hmm . . . this couldn't be a setup, could it? By that crazy Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer? I'm sure she was upset I turned down the offer to join her little gang, but enough to attack me in the change rooms? Not likely. Besides, why go for me as a target? If anyone's going to be beat up after hours, it's the girl from 2.

Slowly, I turn the shower off and grab my towel off the stall door's hook. Of course, I could just be imagining things, but I doubt it. Whatever—if there's someone out there, let them come. They'll get more of a fight than they bargained for.

"I'll have you know, poisoning isn't the only way I've killed people," I call out, wrapping my towel around myself and unlocking the stall door. "You'd be surprised at how creative I can get—"

I yank the door inward, only to find myself face to face with the black-haired, black-eyed man we were introduced to on the first training day. Yoriq Chentanko, Head Gamemaker.

I don't even flinch, just stare at him coldly as he grins. "Please, do go on," he says, tapping his fingers on the shower door. "I'm very interested to hear of your methods."

"You'll see them soon enough, I wager."

He raises an eyebrow. "Are you threatening me, Miss Lamoore?"

"I was talking about you watching me kill onscreen in your Games, but take it any way you like. Now, with all due respect, what the fuck are you doing here?"

The man _tsk_s quietly, lips opening to reveal pointed fangs beneath. "Language, Miss Lamoore. I am your superior."

"Please, let's not cover this up with fancy words. You're a creepy-looking man standing in a girl's change room staring hungrily at a seventeen-year-old in a towel."

"Hungrily?"

"The all black eyes are a neat trick, Mr. Chentanko, but they don't hide your emotions nearly as well as you'd like."

He laughs. "Oh, you're quick as a whip. I'd hoped you would be."

"Did you now? Why?" I readjust my towel, noting the ever-so-slight increase in the pace at which the Head Gamemaker taps his fingernails on the stall door. "Why exactly are you here, Mr. Chentanko."

"You're a smart girl, I'm sure you can guess."

"Maybe I already have and I just want to hear you admit it."

He laughs again, that odd, high-pitched laugh that indicates he's not entirely all there. "All right, I'll bite. You've caught my eye, Miss Lamoore. I have a feeling that wasn't unintentional."

For the past two days, I've spent all my time at the stations directly in front of the balcony of Gamemakers. Frequently, my training has involved me bending over, flexing, or lifting the bottom of my shirt to wipe the sweat from my forehead. Nothing I do is unintentional. "And?"

"You tell me. Are you looking to make some kind of deal, Miss Lamoore?"

"Perhaps. Are you interested?"

It's a ridiculous question; I can see in his face that he can't resist. He licks his lips and grins. "Perhaps. What are you looking for in return?"

"Security. I want to get out of these Games alive."

"You're smart enough to know I can't guarantee that."

"Really? I thought you were the _Head _Gamemaker."

"The Games must rely on a certain amount of chance, Miss Lamoore. If the districts believe the Capitol is rigging them, the whole system would crumble." He smiles condescendingly. "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"You're right, I don't. How is training a tribute specifically for the Games not considered rigging them?"

_That_ makes him pause. "Ah. You know about Glamour, then?"

"Obviously."

"He told you?"

"No. But he's not exactly a master of subtlety. He volunteered, but couldn't give a good reason as to why he'd done it. He said he's raced chariots before, but nowhere in One can you do that. And of course, he's way too skilled with ancient weapons. No one knows how to wield a sword like that." I raise an eyebrow, searching Chentanko's black eyes for answers to the questions I don't yet understand. "Why choose him?"

"He's an ideal specimen."

"Physically, perhaps. Mentally? He can't kill."

"He already has."

"Teenagers? Defenseless teenagers? Teenagers who may be weeping or begging for mercy as he tries to strike them down?" I shake my head. "That's not Glamour."

"You can tell?"

"A moron could. He'll let you down."

Chentanko smiles slyly at me. "Then perhaps I should choose a new champion for my Games."

"Thanks." I make sure he hears the sarcasm in my voice. "Too bad you have no time to train me."

"There are other ways of helping you out."

"Such as?"

"Let's just say the arena will contain numerous . . . _surprises_. I can make sure you don't run into any of these."

"And the other tributes? Can you kill them off before they get to me?"

"That would be a little obvious, wouldn't it? Besides, I'm sure you can handle yourself."

I believed that too, until I witnessed the formation of that mega-alliance today. If I happened to run across them, and they decided to take me out, well, I don't like my odds. It doesn't help that the Capitol's currently doing nothing about Lara-Dorsa and her little rebellion attempt. I think they want to see how it plays out, lead her on so her defeat will be all the more crushing. Time will tell.

"What about supplies, then?" I demand. "You've obviously called it the 'Hunger' Games for a reason. I'll need food in the arena, and clean water, and weapons and—"

"Yes, you'll have the opportunity to get all that at the beginning of the Games."

"_No_. No 'opportunity'. I want a guarantee."

"I can't give you that."

"Well, figure out how to," I say, deftly sliding underneath Chentanko's arm and away from the shower. I turn back to him and gesture mockingly to my body. "Or you won't be getting past this towel."

He smirks. "I could just order you, you know. You're a district citizen and I'm a Capitolite. You'd have to comply."

"Mm, but you're not going to do that."

"No?"

"No, for the same reason the Capitol soldiers occupying One never ordered me to do anything. I present a challenge. You wouldn't want to ruin that with your silly _orders_, would you? Not when you can play the game."

"Never been one for games, to be honest."

"I think that makes you the biggest hypocrite in Panem history."

The change room rings with his laughter. "Perhaps. I'm just not the kind of guy to play by the rules."

"Maybe I'll change the rules to my game, then," I say, slowly backing towards the door and allowing the towel to slip ever so slightly down my chest. "But only when you change the rules to yours."

I scoop my clothes off the bench lining the wall and turn without a backwards glance, striding out the door and back into the gym. Outwardly, I probably look ridiculous, heading to the elevators with soaking wet hair, bare feet and wearing nothing but a towel. Inwardly, however, I'm beaming. Everything is going exactly as planned.

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><p><em><strong>The status of alliances is constantly being updated on the blog, so check that out if you're ever confused as to who's allying with who. That's all for now, and once again, thanks for reading!<strong>_


	13. Allies and Adversaries

_**Just wanted to say, huge thanks to everyone who's followed, favourited and reviewed this story! To the guest reviewers, I can't reply to your reviews through PM, but I wanted to let you know I really appreciate your comments and feedback, thank you so much!**_

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><p><strong>CAIDI IYAUN, 13, DISTRICT 5<strong>

As always, I head down to the gym alone. Punctuality is a trait my parents taught me at a young age and is one they value highly; the same cannot be said for the other tributes, particularly my district partner. Ever since he got reaped, Azimuth has done everything in his power to agonise our expeditious escort, including showing up for every meal, meeting and event during our stay in the Capitol. I can't blame him though, knowing what he's been through. No one knows the full story of what happened in Duskendawn, but I've heard enough rumours to feed a lifetime of nightmares.

Surprisingly, I find I'm not the only one in the gym when I enter. Of course the tributes from 2 and 1 are present, as always, but so is the pair from 6, and the pair from 8. I spend a moment hovering by the doors of the gym, nervously twisting my ring around my finger, before I remember these teenagers are now my allies. I have no further reason to stand alone on the edges of the gym, wishing I could melt through the wall and disappear. I have friends now.

Oddly enough, the thought gives me more cause to hesitate. I've never exactly _had _friends before. Even in the past, back before the war when I used to attend school with my peers, I was always isolated for my . . . well, I don't want to sound conceited, but my intelligence. Not that the kids in 5 aren't all extremely intelligent; according to statistics, our district has the second highest average IQ level, beaten only by 3. We are, however, also an incredibly competitive district. To be the top of the class is to be a target for insults and hate. The only children I ever really associated with were the kids of my father's coworkers, but all of them were a lot younger than I was. The age gap made our relations awkward.

Now I face the opposite problem. The pair from 6, the 8 girl, they're sixteen, seventeen and eighteen. Even if I'm relatively mature for my age, that's an intimidating gap. How am I supposed to interact with them like we're equals?

My gaze zeroes in on the boy from 6, standing off to the side of the little group. His body is rigid, leaning forwards to indicate his participation in the team, but his eyes hold the unfocused quality of someone not expecting to partake in a conversation anytime soon. Huh. My father always said the eyes are the window to the soul, but I'd never truly understood that statement until now. There's something about Fender Exxe's gaze, a grey so light it should be off-putting but instead exudes a calm serenity, like a still lake on a cloudy day. I feel like I can read every one of his feelings—fear, uncertainty, perhaps a hint of anger—yet each emotion is interwoven with a quiet strength of resolve. It's a gaze that says _I care about you, and I know what you're feeling because I feel it too, but I won't let these emotions tear me down. I'll stand up—for you._

I shake my head; where are these thoughts coming from? No, it's ridiculous to continue pondering them.

Still, Fender Exxe is my best bet in terms of starting a conversation with one of my allies. He's almost my age, after all, only a few months younger.

I cross the gym until I come to a stop beside my group of allies. Zibeline Tassle nods in my direction and her partner flinches upon my arrival, but otherwise, I'm not acknowledged. Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer is ranting fervently about our arena plans, but I figure it can't be anything too important or she'd wait for the rest of our group to show up. Now is as good a time as ever to strike up a conversation with Fender.

"Hi," I whisper quietly, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye and meeting his gaze as he does the same.

"Um, hi," he says back. After a glance at Lara-Dorsa, who isn't bothering to glance in our direction, he slowly extends his hand. "I don't think we've really met. I'm Fender."

I smile and take his hand. "Caidi. Though you probably knew that, from yesterday and all."

"Oh yeah. Thanks, by the way. Um, you know, for joining us."

"No problem."

I realise that I've been holding his hand much longer than a typical handshake warrants. Perhaps he notices too; both of our faces go red at the same time and we quickly let go, turning slightly away from each other. Awkward silence reigns.

"That's, um, a nice ring," Fender says, in what's likely a desperate attempt to salvage this uncomfortable moment. He nods at my finger and the silver band around it.

I twist the ring unconsciously. "Thank you."

"Is that writing on it?"

It is, running around the length of the ring. I nod. "My father, he's big on philosophy. Famous quotes and the like. When he decided to marry my mother, he engraved their favourite sayings on the rings." I smile sadly down at the simple piece of jewellery. "Mother always said it was ridiculous, but she treasured this all the same."

Fender goes silent. I don't have to say anything else; the fact that this was my mother's wedding ring and I am now wearing it speaks for itself.

After a quiet, sombre moment, he tentatively asks, "What does it say?"

I don't have to look at the tiny, meticulously-carved letters to recite the quote. "'As our cosmos is dynamically interconnected; all actions are legacies to all that is and will ever be.'" An odd quote, to any who knew my mother. Hard and strict, Abma Iyaun didn't seem like the poetic type. But when my father read her this quote out of one of his old philosophy textbooks, I suppose it stuck.

Once again, without having to say much, my words detail the life of my mother. Fender doesn't have to ask anything else, just quietly murmurs, "She fought in the war, didn't she?"

"Yes, she did. She was one of the soldiers that went to One as soon as they heard about the invasion. Her commander told her to wait until they had a better understanding of the situation, but she couldn't stand to let innocent people die in the meantime. They say the fight she and other soldiers like her put up held the Capitol forces back long enough to allow for many Oners to escape the district."

Not that it wound up helping in the end. 1 was still occupied, and its citizens subjected to horrific tortures. Ever since I arrived here, I've been tempted to ask the tributes from 1 if my mother's sacrifice truly helped anything.

Maybe Fender sees the doubt in my eyes, because he looks at me with such an intense stare, one that screams _don't doubt yourself. Your mother was a brave, noble woman, and her sacrifice was not in vain. _"It sounds like her actions left an admirable legacy behind, then."

My eyes widen. "Y-yes. I suppose she did." I blink rapidly; the doubt in my gaze vanishes and I smile. "Thank you."

He gives a small grin in response, but before our conversation can continue, we're interrupted.

"Tributes! Gather 'round please, gather 'round. My colleague and I have some _interesting_ information for you."

The man with the black eyes is speaking, the one introduced to us as Yoriq Chentanko. I hadn't realised it during my conversation with Fender, but the remaining tributes have finally arrived in the gym, making us a full set once more. With varying degrees of eagerness and reluctance, we crowd close to the balcony and look up to our Head Gamemaker, waiting for his announcement.

He clears his throat, smiling widely. "As you all know, this is the last day of training before the Games. I'm sure you've all been doing your _very_ best." His eyes glint in amusement as he glances at each of the rebellious tributes who have been purposefully ignoring the stations. "It is in your best interests, after all, what with our next little event coming up so soon.

"Tomorrow you will all come down here as per usual. However, you will be asked to wait outside the gym in the space provided. One by one, you will be called into the gym to demonstrate all that you've learned for us Gamemakers." His sharp teeth glitter as he bares them in a grin. "You are advised to do well in these sessions. We will be marking you, after all."

I tense, and in the crowd around me, I can see the pair from 3 do the same. Marking schemes always make me nervous. Even though this is the Capitol, and I know I should refuse to play their games as the rest of my alliance would, I hate to do poorly when being evaluated. It makes me feel like I've failed someone.

"Your scores will be aired at eight o'clock that night. A score of one is the lowest you can be awarded, and it is, how should I say, _abysmal_." The Head Gamemaker smiles, as though he can already tell who will be getting such a horrendous mark. "The highest mark one may achieve is a twelve. This is the excellence you should all be striving for."

"And what's the prize for receiving the highest score?" the girl from 1 calls out. I'm shocked by her boldness; never would I _dream_ of interrupting a Capitolite, especially one with as much control over our lives as Yoriq Chentanko.

He, however, seems more amused than angry. "Yes, of course, the prize. Thank you for reminding me, Miss Lamoore." There's something in his tone of voice as he speaks to her . . . is there more going on between them? No, how is that possible? "There is indeed a prize. Last night, my colleague and I devised a sponsoring system for the Hunger Games. Essentially, if someone takes a liking to a particular tribute, they may pay for certain gifts to be sent to said tribute during their time in the arena. As food, water and other life essentials may be scarce in the Games, obtaining sponsors is one of the best ways to ensure you stay alive." Chentanko smiles at us like we're rats caught in his trap when he continues, "Oh, and sponsor gifts are _ridiculously _expensive to purchase. So you likely won't be able to count on your friends in the districts, I'm afraid. Ah, and the prize for obtaining the highest score in these private sessions is fifty thousand dollars towards your sponsoring fund."

Many people can't help but gasp, including Fender and myself. I mean, my family is relatively well off, but _fifty thousand dollars_? Just for one person? The wealth and exorbitance of the Capitol never ceases to amaze me.

The Head Gamemaker chuckles at our reactions. "Don't be so shocked—this won't buy you nearly as much in the arena as you might think. However, it will still give you quite the edge over others, especially those who receive the _lowest _training score. I won't tell you what the punishment for that is, but let me tell you, you don't want it." He claps his hands. "Well, that's it for my announcement. Happy last training day, everyone!" His eyebrows drop slightly, giving his smile a menacing twist. "Make it count."

Murmuring amongst themselves, the tributes start to disperse, but stop when they catch sight of the girl from 9 waving her arm back and forth in the air. Chentanko's attention appears to be focused on Elegance Lamoore and he doesn't notice, but his colleague does. Rising gracefully from her chair, Daelianne Botterwurth nods coolly in the girl's direction. "Do you have a question, Miss Hobbert?"

"Yes, actually, I have for a while now." I don't miss the subtle, side-glance Elanie throws to her ally before continuing, "So you've talked about the policy of being delivered objects while we're in the arena, but what about bringing something in ourselves? What are the rules for that? Could I, say, pick up an axe from that station over there and cart it in with me?"

Daelianne frowns. "Of course not. Tributes are not allowed to bring anything with them into the arena. Uniforms will be provided before the Games begin."

"Well, that's not fair," Elanie's ally, Mikael, pipes up. "I mean, what about my glasses? I need them to see, thank you very much. Taking them away will put me at a huge disadvantage. And what about jewellery stuff, like Peecy's locket?"

His district partner gasps, a hand flying to her throat, where a slim, golden chain I hadn't noticed before rests. "This was my mother's!" she cries. "I haven't taken it off since she . . . I can't lose it! You can't take it away from me!"

My fingers automatically go to my own heirloom of my mother, twisting the ring nervously. They wouldn't . . . they wouldn't really take it away from me, would they? Not my last memory of my mother, my _district_ . . .

Daelianne opens her mouth to respond, but her colleague cuts her off. "Each tribute may bring a single item with them into the arena to serve as a token of sorts, a reminder of their homes and their families. No weapons, no food—sentimental objects. Glasses are fine," he adds, smiling.

"Well, it appears we've already got it figured out," Daelianne says, but by the way she's glowering at Yoriq, I can tell this decision is news to her and was definitely not reached by a consensus. "Now, if that answers your questions, please commence with your training. It is your last day, after all, and you must make the most of it."

She dismisses the tributes with a distracted wave of her hand; her attention is still focused on Yoriq. After a moment of silent conversation between the two where she glares at him and he smiles teasingly, they both rise and leave the balcony—heading to a more secluded spot to have a private conversation, no doubt. They leave a multitude of Gamemakers to watch us, but I still breathe a sigh of relief when they disappear. Both Daelianne and Yoriq unnerve me, because of the power they hold and the auras they cast. She's cold and calculating; he's . . . I don't even know how to describe it. But it's definitely more relaxing without them present.

That doesn't fully diminish my unease, however. I glance around the gym, taking note of the pair from 1 and 2 training harder than ever. Even some of the wallflower tributes have come out of their shells to try a station. Off to my right, Lara-Dorsa has assembled our alliance and is giving them orders to train as well.

Fender nudges me as our allies begin to disperse. "So, um, do you want to go to a station together?"

Don't they realise what's happened? They're making us dependant on the Capitol. Yoriq was right, if fifty thousand dollars won't buy us much in the arena, there's no way anyone in the districts could possibly sponsor a tribute. It has to be a Capitolite, which means we have to please said Capitolites in order to earn their help. We're being manipulated into thinking that sucking up to the Capitol is in our best interests. That's one way to stop further rebellions.

I want to fight it, but really, how can I? I'm a small, naïve thirteen-year-old from one of the most urban districts in Panem. I've never set foot in a forest, never learned how to live off the land, never even seen a pond before. Without help from the Capitol, I'm dead in these Games.

But if I don't stand up against them, stand up for my beliefs, what point is there to anything?

I sigh. "You go ahead," I say in response to Fender's invitation. "I'll be along in a bit. I've got some thinking to do."

* * *

><p><strong>SEQUOIA PENDUNCULAT, 12, DISTRICT 7<strong>

I spend most of my time sitting on the highest branch of the climbing trees, watching my fellow tributes go about their training and occasionally sinking off into a daydream. Perhaps I should be training, practicing something I might actually be able to show the Gamemakers tomorrow—no, I can't. They're wanting to see skill with weapons, I know they are, and that's something I can't bring myself to do. I don't care what the rules and goals of the Hunger Games are, I won't hurt another person, I _won't_.

B-But . . . I don't want to d-d-die either.

I take a deep, shaky breath, wiping away the freshly forming tears in my eyes. Oh, how has it come to this? Where I have to make the decision between killing and being killed? I-I can't! I'm only twelve, obviously I don't want to die, but at the same time I couldn't ever _m-murder _someone. Earlier on, I was confident I could find some way around this fact, but now that the Games are so close, I'm terrified of what might soon happen to me. Of what I soon might become. I don't want others to look at me and see a monster.

I-Is that it then, the whole reason I try to be nice? Not because it's the right thing, but because I'm worried what people will think of me otherwise? _What kind of an attitude is that, Sequoia? That makes you just as bad as every other selfish person on this planet!_

I bury my face in my hands. That's the worst part of this experience so far: the questions. People go through life hiding behind a series of façades and fake feelings. It's tragic, but only violence and threats bring out people's real nature. During the rebellion and all that horrors that ensued, I managed to stay true to myself. But back then, no one was specifically trying to kill me; now that there are twenty-three people with that goal, I worry what I might discover about myself.

_What you really need is friends. _I don't know where the thought comes from, but as soon as it enters my head, I realise it's true. Back home, before the war and even after it, I always tried to surround myself with other people. They can help to ground you because they don't know about all your doubts and worries, they only know the you they can perceive and, strange as it sounds, that's comforting. Around other people, I don't question who I am because, in that moment, I am whoever they think I am. That's what scares me about these upcoming Games, more than anything else: the solitude.

_So find some friends._

"Hey, kid! Oi, up in the tree!"

I glance down to see the climbing instructor staring up at me. He's been sitting bored at his station for the past three hours—there was nothing he could teach me that I didn't already know—but now he's up on his feet, jabbing his thumb towards the gym doors. "It's lunchtime, get down from there!"

I obey without a word, sliding from branch to branch before hopping down the last few feet. The floor beneath the climbing station is padded and squishy, to make sure tributes remain unhurt if they happen to fall. The lengths that Capitol goes to in order to protect us, only to throw us into an arena to die, is astounding.

I follow the other tributes out the gym doors and towards the cafeteria, but instead of losing my focus and daydreaming as usual, I watch each teenager intently. Could I find a friend with this crowd?

I already received an invitation to join from the large group headed by the girl from 6, but I'm not interested. For one, their goal is to bring down the Capitol, and I can't take anymore fighting, I _can't_. For another, they are definitely an _alliance_; what I'm searching for is a _friendship_. Yes, there is a difference.

Most of the still-solitary tributes look like they prefer being alone, so I'm not likely to find a kindred spirit there (I most definitely _won't _make the same mistake of approaching the boy from 10). However, some of the existing groups might be nice to join. There's the boy from 3 and the girl from 9, the pair from 11 and the girl from 2, the boy from 12 and the girl from 3 . . .

My eyes land on this last alliance, keeping to themselves in the corner of the cafeteria and chatting quietly. Their faces are animated, their smiles genuine, and I can tell they're both actually enjoying talking with one another. No manipulation going on, no teaming up simply based on the other's usefulness—these are the closest thing to friends I've seen so far.

Winze Reaming and Peecy Siber. Both are close to my age, and both seem really nice. Would they . . . would they mind terribly if I sat with them?

I arrive at the front of the cafeteria line and pile my lunch onto a tray. Well, now is the time to pick a seat. Now is the time to decide whether I'll make friends or spend my days in the Hunger Games arena alone.

* * *

><p><strong>PEECY SIBER, 13, DISTRICT 3<strong>

"And then the king dies! Luckily his friend knows the truth about what happens and continues to fight for justice. But then this evil, evil, jerk of a woman—she's so awful, like GAH, I just, argh, I can't describe my hate for her, she's so, so _blech _and . . ." I trail off, blushing. "Sorry. I get really into books sometimes."

"No, no, it's fine," Winze says, smiling at my enthusiasm. "What happens next?"

I grin. I like this, this thing going on between us. Call it an alliance, call it a friendship, whatever it is, it works. It was difficult at first, of course, especially our attempts at conversation. Talking about our futures is horrific, talking about our present sucks, and talking about our pasts leads to clouds of gloom hanging over the both of us. Needless to say, it was tough to find topics that _didn't _lead to awkward, sombre silence—until I happened to mention my love for reading. Winze said he'd never read a book in his life (in his _life_, can you imagine?), but he really wanted to, so of course I set about giving him the lowdown on every good novel I've ever read. It makes it easier, talking about a fantasy world and fantasy characters with fantasy problems. My parents always said books are an escape, and I need one now more than ever.

My fingers find the locket around my neck, as they always do whenever I think about Mom and Dad. Man, Mikael terrified me today by pointing it out to the Gamemakers. I'd expressly tried to keep it hidden in case we _weren't _allowed to bring anything with us into the arena, but obviously my observant district partner noticed. I don't know why he had to mention it, but I've got a feeling he and Elanie have a bigger plan up their sleeve then just worrying about whether or not Mikael can have his glasses in the arena. Ah, they're too smart for me, I can't even imagine how their brains work. At least my necklace wasn't confiscated.

"Okay, anyways, so the evil jerk woman captures the king's friend, and then—"

"Um, e-excuse me?"

Winze and I turn our heads as one to find the girl from 7 with the long, weird name (Sequoia?) waiting by our table, tray in hand. "S-sorry to bother you," she says, blushing. "I was just wondering if maybe I . . . maybe I could sit with you?"

Winze glances at me, then nods. "Uh, yeah, sure."

He scoots his chair to the left so she can take the one beside him, and she nervously does so. I narrow my eyes as she slowly begins to eat; I'm not suspicious, just curious. "Is sitting with us the only reason you came over here?"

She lets out a surprised squeak at my bluntness and drops her sandwich. Winze smiles reassuringly. "Hey, it's all right," he says, offering her some food from his plate. "We were just wondering. We're not mad or anything."

"Yeah, sorry if it comes across that way." I point my finger at myself and try for an apologetic expression. "District Three, lacking tact since Panem's beginning."

The young girl's lips quirk upwards. "No worries," she says. "We all have our quirks. District Seven and a self-proclaimed tree hugger."

"District Twelve and yes, I do have coal dust in my blood," Winze adds, and soon the three of us erupt into a fit of giggles. Maybe it's the threat of our impending deaths, but every little joke seems ten times funnier told here and now.

"But yeah," Sequoia begins again after our laughter has subsided. She fidgets with her plastic fork, nervously scraping the tines across her plate. "I did come over here for another reason. I-I, um, I . . ."

She subsides into blushing silence, unable to get the words out. I know what she wants though, and Winze seems to understand as well.

Placing a soft hand on Sequoia's shoulder, he says, "Hey, you know, Peecy and I were just talking about making another friend. Do you maybe want to join us? Like, not just for lunch, but you know, as a team? We could help each other out and stuff."

Leave it to him to know exactly what to say. Now that Sequoia doesn't have to worry about putting herself out there and getting rejected, her face lights up and her smile brims with joy. "Yes, yes! Thank you, that would be amazing! I mean, if it's all right with both of you," she adds quickly, glancing at me.

I meet Winze's gaze, his eyes apologetic for not asking me about this first. But I'm totally fine with it—hey, us young ones have to stick together, don't we? "Yeah, of course it's all right. But just so you know, neither of us are fighters. Moments these Hunger Games start, we are bolting to the other end of the arena, away from everyone else."

Sequoia positively beams. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

"All right." Winze smiles and puts his hand in the middle of the table. "Team Run and Hide is a go!"

Sequoia and I giggle and put our hands on top of his. It's a nice gesture, and once again I'm amazed with Winze's ability to deal with people so well. He almost had me forgetting how dangerous the Hunger Games were going to be—he's treating it just like that, a game, for the sake of his allies. It's a smart tactic, and one I should maybe adopt. After all, what use is wallowing in terror? Maybe for once, I shouldn't focus on the negative; after all, too much negative can crush a person, and the Hunger Games are anyone's worst nightmare.

* * *

><p><strong>AZIMUTH KURINDT, 16, DISTRICT 5<strong>

I'm last in line to get my food, as usual—want to keep as far away from the rest of the tributes as possible. They've got the typical fare behind the counters—soups, sandwiches, whatever—and also these new things called "calzones". As always, I grab everything vegetarian; the Capitol's a hellhole, but I can't deny they've got great food, and I always make a point to eat as much as I can whenever I can. I'm never going hungry again.

I take a bite of the calzone as I turn away from the cafeteria counter. It's kind of weird and doughy, but filled with cheese, tomato sauce and cooked vegetables. Not bad—

_Whump. _Someone walks right into me, sending my tray skidding across the floor. Food splatters everywhere: on the ground, in my hair, all over my assailant. I growl, wiping tomato sauce out of my eyes and clenching my fists, ready to punch the lights out of whoever d_ared_ come in contact with me.

"Oh my gosh, I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going! This was entirely my fault, oh, look at the mess! I'm _so _sorry!"

The girl from 1 stares innocently up at me, her face the perfect mask of guilt and repentance. Nothing out of the ordinary, but I flinch away all the same. Elegance Lamoore . . . something about her I don't like. She's made her flirtatious behaviour with all the older boys no secret, and I was the first one to totally shut her down. Ever since, I've had the feeling she's been watching me closely. It's like flirting with boys and making connections with them is her way of giving them a weakness, but with me destroying any possibility of a relationship between us, she has to search for another flaw in my design.

"Whatever," I say, brushing pieces of salad off my sleeve. "Don't fucking do it again."

"How can I ever make it up to you? Your food is _everywhere_—look, take mine, all right? I'll wait to get some more."

The fact that she managed to keep her tray untouched while walking into me _screams_ suspicious, but I still hesitate before turning her down. The cafeteria is running low on food; the workers left to get more, and I sure as hell don't want to wait for them to come back. My stomach is already beginning to ache—just at the thought of food, it lets out a low growl that scares the shit out of me. _Not again. I can't go hungry again._

"Fine," I mutter, barely thinking as I grab Elegance's tray from her. "I hope you starve waiting, clumsy bitch."

She doesn't react to the insult, merely giving me another apologetic smile before turning around and flouncing back to her table. I roll my eyes and slink off to my corner.

One wouldn't expect a slim, delicate girl like Elegance to eat a lot, but her tray is well-filled; she's even got another one of those calzones. I grab it and hurriedly take a bite, hoping it'll appease my stomach.

Shit. _Shit_. I freeze just after I swallow, staring across the cafeteria at Elegance, who's watching me with a sly smile playing across her lips. _Shit, Azimuth, you fucking idiot! The hell were you thinking, taking food from a stranger? _Isn't this the girl who uses poisons? No, she couldn't do anything to me now, could she? The Capitol wouldn't allow it. But the why is she watching me—

My eyes flit down to the calzone I hold, and I realise it's worse than poison.

I drop the food and jerk out of my seat, muttering something about the bathroom to the Capitol attendants as I practically sprint out of the cafeteria. Meat, there was fucking _meat _in that calzone. Ham or chicken, I don't know, but it tasted like . . . oh Panem, it tasted like—

_The scent of burning flesh fills the room. The sizzle of fat drowns out the sobs of the emaciated people around me._

"_It's the only way," one of the workers murmurs, turning the makeshift spit over our fire over and over. "It's the only way. It's the only way. It's the only way."_

_I'm handed the largest piece. Because I got the meat for everyone. Or maybe because I was the one crazy and desperate enough to suggest this idea, to put the thought in their heads, and they want to punish me, to see if I'll actually go through with it._

_What lies in front of me is still all too recognisable as a human thigh. But I don't hesitate. Neither do any of the other starving workers._

_I'm pretty sure his name was Tensil Grout, one of the reactor operators. He was a younger man, two little kids and a third one on the way. He wanted to see his beautiful wife again so, so badly, but he chose the wrong side when he decided to defend Stautick. I killed him. And then I—_

I just barely manage to make it to the bathrooms before I retch. The enormous breakfast I had this morning burns coming back up, and the smell is sickening enough to induce more vomiting, but good, _good_. As long as I get the meat out. I can't have what was once living flesh in my body again, oh Panem, not with the memories.

The scent of puke has wafted all throughout the bathroom by the time I finally get myself under control. I gag one last time, but all that comes out is a thin, acidic stream of discoloured spit. My stomach is completely empty.

I groan, and somehow, with blurred vision, my hands manage to find the lever, and I flush all the sick away. My fingers are shaking furiously again—_damn it. _I try to make them stop, but the trembling only increases, and _fuck_, now my eyes are starting to water. _Get ahold of yourself, Azimuth! You're not some weakling who cries in the bathroom! _But the tears are starting to hit the ground, and I can't wipe them away fast enough, and shit, what does it matter anyways?

"Well, _someone's _got a weak stomach. Feeling a bit faint? Need a glass of water or—holy shit, are you _crying_?"

The mocking tone to the voice reaches new levels as the speaker laughs. I grit my teeth and spring to my feet, whirling around to meet the soon-to-be-dead Sable Brandmere.

"I mean, I knew you were a nut, but a softie on top of that." He snorts. "What, Mommy and Daddy didn't love their little psycho enough?"

"You want to fucking go?" I roar, balling my hands into fists. Now more tears are streaming down my face, but these are _angry_ tears, _furious_ tears. I'm sick of this guy's shit and we are going to settle this _right now._

He opens his mouth, probably to say something cocky in response, but I don't give him the opportunity. With a shout, I launch myself at him, sending my fist straight into his arrogant face.

* * *

><p><strong>MILLER SORGUM, 14, DISTRICT 9<strong>

I was going to give Azimuth a bit of time to himself before I went to check on him. Sure, the guy's kind of scary and he's been nothing but awful to me, but I still feel for him. I don't know, I just can't shake this feeling that inside that angry, raging boy is a traumatised little kid who just wants a little attention.

I should have gone to the bathroom sooner, though, the moment I saw the boy from 10 head in that direction. Naïve idiot that I am, I didn't think it would be a problem. I was so, so wrong.

I'm a few steps away from the boys' bathroom door when it slams open and two kids come tumbling through. It's Azimuth and Sable, and both look _furious. _The former has tackled the latter, and is currently straddling his, yelling and punching every inch of the older boy that he can reach.

"Hey!" I shout, running towards them. "Hey, stop!"

My voice distracts Azimuth for a half a second, as I was hoping it would, giving Sable enough time to escape the enraged boy's grasp. However, instead of running away, the boy from 10 reaches into his pocket and pulls out something that glitters dangerously in the light.

Azimuth looks back at his opponent just in time to see the blade come swinging towards him. He leans away—thank Panem—and what could have been a deadly hit only grazes his chest. Nevertheless, a thin line of blood begins to seep through the long slice in his shirt.

Azimuth gasps and scrambles away from Sable, who lunges at him with the knife once again, only to be stopped as I finally leap into action. Grabbing the older boy's free arm, I firmly yank him away from Azimuth before planting myself directly between the two kids.

"Hey!" I shout, swivelling my head to keep an eye on both of them. "Stop it, idiots! You could have killed each other! Fighting is one thing, but a _knife_."

"Never come unprepared," Sable mutters, keeping his gaze firmly focused on the boy beyond me.

Azimuth snarls. "You're a coward."

"I wasn't the one hiding in the bathroom and crying."

"Enough!" I shout, just barely managing to restrain Azimuth as he lunges for Sable again. "Stop it, both of you, or I swear, I will call the Peacekeepers!"

"Fuck," Azimuth grunts, straining against my grip. "Let me . . . fucking _go_!"

He manages to wrench his left arm from my grasp, and the punch comes too swiftly for me to react. It's not strong—he just wants me out of the way more than anything else—but his fist hits my temple with enough force to have me seeing stars. My grip loosens of its own accord and with a roar of fury, Azimuth frees himself and runs at Sable once more, who readies the knife with a menacing glare.

"Peacekeepers!" I shout as loud as I can. Is it my imagination, or can I already hear the pounding of footsteps approaching our location? "Peacekeepers, help!"

* * *

><p>"I'm going to kill you. I'm going to fucking kill you."<p>

I cross my arms and slouch further down. "Yeah, yeah, soon twenty-two other kids are going to be saying the same thing. Get in line." I'm not in the mood to put up with Azimuth's tough-guy bullshit right now.

"Well, I'll kill you both first. Might not even have to wait 'til the Games."

Not in the mood for Sable's tough-guy bullshit either. "Honestly, if the two of you realised how similar you are to each other, you might make great friends."

"Fuck off, Sorgum."

"Us? _Friends_? You're as crazy as that psychotic bastard."

"Fuck off, Brandmere."

I groan. The Peacekeepers just _had_ to put me in between these two.

Fortunately, the fight was broken up pretty quickly after I called in reinforcements; unfortunately, the Peacekeepers thought I'd been a part of it. All three of us were whisked away to the bottom level of the Training Centre, which functions as a sort of hospital. I'd been there before, when we first arrived in the Capitol, to have the gashes from my whipping patched up. After all, the Capitol needs its tributes to be in good condition for their fight to the death.

Now Azimuth, Sable and I are waiting in the hospital beds, unable to move because we've been handcuffed to the rails on the sides of the beds. I shake my wrist indignantly, listening to the jangle of metal against metal. Seriously, why did they have to restrain _me_ as well? I wasn't even a part of the fight!

The Peacekeepers and doctors have left us alone in here for a good long while now, and it's starting to make me uncomfortable. I feel like the three of us are sitting outside the principal's office, waiting for our punishment, which, I suppose, is a pretty ridiculous, yet accurate description of our situation right now. I just hope someone comes for us soon—I don't know how much longer I can put up with Sable and Azimuth's bickering.

_Finally_, the door slides open, admitting the creepy-looking Head Gamemaker who gave us that announcement earlier today. I tense automatically, gritting my teeth as he steps, smiling, into the room. Something about this guy sets me on edge—besides the whole "I'm the reason you're all gonna die" business.

"Well," he says, his eyes roaming slowly over each of us. "Well, well, well."

Azimuth glares at him with as much anger as he can muster, which is quite a lot. Sable narrows his eyes, as though trying to figure out as much about Yoriq Chentanko as he can so he can use it against the Head Gamemaker. I just stare with this awkward, don't-look-at-me-I-shouldn't-be-here expression.

After letting us writhe in uncomfortable silence for a short moment, Yoriq claps his hands. "Well, boys, I don't know whether I should be proud or disappointed. Although I think proud is currently winning out."

He smirks at Sable and withdraws something from the pocket of his lab coat: the knife from the fight earlier. Azimuth's blood has dried along the blade, turning the silver metal a dull, rust colour. "Trying to smuggle weapons away from the stations," Yoriq says, turning the knife in his hand. "Very sneaky."

"Thank you," Sable says, and it's impossible to tell if he's being sarcastic or not. "I try."

"Of course, it didn't work. But you've provided some much-needed entertainment for me. I appreciate that." His eyes go to Azimuth, and his smile widens. "And you, taking on a boy with a knife when you're weaponless. I'm impressed."

"I've been up against worse," Azimuth growls. The look on his face tells me he's not lying, and I'm torn between feeling scared and oddly sad.

"And then we have our little peacemaker." I have to say, Yoriq Chentanko smiling directly at me is one of the eeriest sights I've ever witnessed. "You rushed in there without a thought for your own safety. How noble."

His tone sounds a bit too mocking for his words to be genuine. I frown, narrowing my eyes at the Capitolite. "Your Peacekeepers did the same thing. Frankly, I'm surprised. Don't you want us to kill each other?"

"Oh, of course," Yoriq says flippantly, waving his hand. "But not now. Only when I'm in control of the situation."

Azimuth snorts. "What does that matter?"

Yoriq raises an eyebrow. "It is of the utmost importance, Mr. Kurindt. Control is something all humans crave. If you take away every ounce of control they have over their lives, you'll ruin them. After all, how did the three of you feel when you were reaped? Knowing that how much you yelled, how fast you ran, how much you had already suffered, it didn't make a difference because you weren't in control of the situation?"

I remember the hopeless sensation I'd felt with a sickening jolt; on either side of me, Sable and Azimuth are glaring murderously at Yoriq. Both look ready to start spewing profanities, so I interject before they can—even if they're annoying as hell, I don't want them getting hurt by the Capitol for mouthing off. "So you want to ruin us, is that it?" I demand, staring the Head Gamemaker right in his creepy eyes.

All he does is smile. "The doctors said you're free to go, Mr. Sorgum—the blow to your head was nothing major." He drops the knife back into his pocket and retrieves something else: a small, silver key, which he tosses onto my bed. His smile widens as I scramble to grab it with my free hand and unlock my restraints. "There's one hour of training left. Enjoy it. While you can, of course."

* * *

><p><em><strong>And that's the last training day! There are six chapters left before the beginning of the Games! What do you think of the tributes and their dynamics so far? Any particular group or alliance stand out to you as a favourite (or one you hate the most)? Thank you for all your input!<strong>_


	14. Behind Closed Doors

_**Sorry for the wait with this chapter, it's a longer one than most. Hope it's not too much to read though! Thanks again to everyone who's been reading/reviewing/favouriting/following, you're all awesome! Only five more chapters until the Games now! Don't forget to vote on the poll on my profile before that starts! Currently, Aelia and Elegance are leading it, which is neat :)**_

_**Anyways, as always, thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!**_

* * *

><p><strong>FENDER EXXE, 12, DISTRICT 6<strong>

The tension is palpable in the cafeteria as we all wait, trying to pass the time before we're called. Complimentary trays of cookies and little finger foods are spread out around the room, but they've remained untouched by everyone. We're all too nervous.

The door to the cafeteria opens, and I swear everyone collectively jumps. A Peacekeeper stands at the entrance, holding a long sheaf of paper in his hands. "All right," he says, clearing his throat. "We're ready for you. Glamour Sumptaious, District One male, you're first."

The 1 boy shoots up from his seat closest to the door and hurriedly marches towards the Peacekeeper, ignoring the "Good luck!" called by the boy from 2. Vitus Aquila—is he being sarcastic? He always seems to say nice things, but Lara-Dorsa has been adamant that the tributes from 2 are nothing less than pure evil. When I asked her why, she repeated what I'd already known: that 2 had betrayed the districts in the war and sided with the Capitol, bringing about our downfall. I don't see how that has anything to do with Vitus Aquila and Aelia Cassionus in particular, but I guess I'll just roll with it. I don't want to challenge Lara-Dorsa or any of the other rebels and lose the first friends I've had in three years.

"So." Speaking of my allies, Lara-Dorsa is currently addressing us, and I hurriedly lean in to listen as the others huddled around our table. "Everyone know what they're going to do?"

"Probably doesn't matter, right?" Miller says. "I mean, we've made our dislike for the Capitol open. I can't see them grading us fairly."

"In that case, we should all screw with these sessions," Hal declares vehemently. "You know, tell them to fuck off or do something rebellious or something. That'll show them."

"Yes, and also give them even more of a reason to target us in the arena," Aloi says lazily, not even looking up from the swan she's folding out of a spare napkin. "Are you that eager to die, Harry?"

"For the last time, my name is—"

"She knows," Anne cuts in, tossing a weary glare Aloi's way. "It's not going to help getting mad about it."

"You're smarter than you look, Amelia."

Anne frowns. "Doesn't mean it's not annoying, though."

"What are you going to do for your session then, Aloi?" Lara-Dorsa cuts in, raising an eyebrow at the most . . . unique member of our alliance.

"Oh, I don't know. Something spectacular. Whether or not the Gamemakers can comprehend such a high level of talent is another story."

Lara-Dorsa smiles. "You're trying to protect yourself. Saying the Gamemakers might not understand your skills is a good way to avoid humiliation if you get a low score. Are you afraid of failure, Aloi?"

"Are _you_?" she counters.

"Of course not. I know I'm destined to get a lower score, likely _the_ lowest thanks to my connections in the rebellion."

"It'd have to be _the_ lowest though, right?" Aloi says, watching Lara-Dorsa closely. It's strange, the Twelver seems like such a, well, an airhead most of the time, until she's talking to my district partner. Then this look of intense focus comes over her face, and you can see a hint of the intelligence she's hiding behind her ditzy façade. "I mean, if it wasn't _the_ lowest, then you wouldn't be _the biggest_ rebel, am I right? And of course you couldn't _stand _to lose that title to anyone else." She frowns thoughtfully. "Still, I think you're going to try for the highest score anyways. As nice as it is to be the worst at something, being the best is better. But hey, as long as you're at one extreme or the other, right? Can't have the great Lulu-Defectless stuck in the middle with the common folk."

Normally, Lara-Dorsa doesn't react to Aloi's snide comments. Say what you will about my district partner, she's amazing at dealing with people, no matter what their personalities. Every once in a while though, Aloi makes a point that hits a little too close to home, and Lara-Dorsa's smile drops, as it does now.

The two of us were in the chariot race side-by-side, and if there's one thing I learned that night, it's that Lara-Dorsa has a _bit _of a competitive streak. Well, okay, a little more than a bit. She tried to be nice during the race, but I think the adrenaline of the moment got to her. I was on the verge of tears because my driving was so bad and she was pushing so hard for us to achieve a win that was impossible. We came in fourth, which was pretty amazing considering I'd never even seen a chariot before, but I still couldn't shake the feeling that I'd disappointed Lara-Dorsa, and it made me feel awful.

"So, Anne," I say quickly, hoping to distract both Lara-Dorsa and Aloi from the resentment building between them. "Do you know what you're going to do?"

She shrugs. "No. I mean, we didn't visit any of the stations, and I don't really have any skills beyond that. I can use a boathook, but that's not special. I mean, who can't?"

"I think you're forgetting not everyone here is from Four," Lara-Dorsa says, and thank goodness, she's back to all smiles. "That's an excellent skill to have, Anne."

Anne blushes at the compliment. Lara-Dorsa gives them out all the time, but somehow she manages to make each one special, like nothing in the world is more amazing to her than you and whatever you can do.

"If we're doing Four stuff, maybe I should go full-on-pirate on them." Hal snickers. "Grab a sword, threaten the Gamemakers, demand their riches."

"Do you guys actually have pirates in Four?" Miller asks. "I've heard rumours but, like, seriously?"

"Nah. Well, we don't call them pirates, they're 'coastal criminals'. Every so often some gang of thugs gets the idea to try jacking a ship carting supplies to Five or Ten or whatever. There was this one time . . ."

Hal dives off into the tale of District 4's most famous boat-hijacking, with Anne chiming in once in a while to fill in missing details while everyone else listens intently. I'm not particularly interested in the story, but I can't help smiling nonetheless. At least everyone is relaxing and getting along.

I lock eyes with Caidi across the table, who looks equally detached but agreeably content with the conversation. We exchange grins. She tries to silently tell me something, gesturing from herself to the table to the chair next to me. I frown, not understanding, and without explaining further, she disappears under the table.

Before I have a chance to peer down and find her, she's already crawled up and into the seat beside me. "Faster than going around," she murmurs, giggling quietly as she bats away the blonde hairs that have escaped her braids.

"Can't argue with that," I whisper back, trying not to disturb the older kids. It's true we're all part of an alliance, but even within the strongest of teams, there will always be people who are more attached to some of their friends than others. Like Zibeline and Lara-Dorsa, or Hal and Anne. Or me and Caidi—she's just so much easier (and less intimidating) to talk to.

The door to the cafeteria opens again, and the same Peacekeeper with the list returns, this time calling the name of Elegance Lamoore. "So . . ." I say quietly, nerves returning as I watch the blonde, willowy girl stride confidently out of the room. "Do you know what you're going to do for this?"

"Yes. No." Caidi sighs. "I've got a plan. And a backup plan. And a just-in-case plan. And a backup plan for that. Okay, I have a lot of plans." She tries to smile, but I can see the worry in her eyes. "I guess I'm not great dealing with the unknown."

"You'll be amazing, I know you will be. If you get a low score, it'll only be because . . . what was the saying? 'The Gamemakers can't comprehend such a high level of talent.'"

She giggles at my attempt to mimic Aloi's airy, high-pitched voice. "Same to you, of course. Have you decided what you're going to do?"

It's my turn to sigh. "No, not really. I stayed up thinking about it all last night, but honestly, I'm not good at anything. Besides, I'm pretty much guaranteed to get a low score anyway, so I guess it really doesn't matter."

"Unfortunately, I think that's true," Caidi murmurs. Then she shakes her head. "I mean, the part about the Gamemakers giving you a low score. Not that you're not good anything, that's not true."

"No, it is, and it's okay, honestly. I mean, I've spent the last three years in a bunker—not really the place to develop life skills." Memories float back to me of that dank, dingy room, darkness pressing all around and the scent of death heavy on the air. I repress a shudder and try to laugh—anything to distract myself. "Maybe I could go in there and eat a whole bunch of gross food. 'Bout the only thing life in the bunker prepared me for."

My weak laughter peters out when Caidi doesn't react to the joke. Not like she didn't find it funny, though, more like she was distracted by something else. She's staring at me intently, green eyes wide and shimmering in the light of the cafeteria. A foreign feeling plucks at my heart strings, making me feel awkward and self-conscious, but in a strangely . . . good way? "What is it?"

"I was just thinking of what you should do for the Gamemakers," Caidi says slowly. "You should talk to them."

"What?"

"You're a really charming guy, Fender," she begins. Both of us blush slightly, but Caidi presses on, "I mean it. Lara-Dorsa has a louder personality so other people don't get to see it, but you're an inspiring speaker—just as much as she is."

"H-How do you know?" I ask, not to be mean or to challenge her, but because I genuinely have no idea why anyone would describe me like that. "I mean, we haven't even talked all that much."

"Exactly. Lara-Dorsa's long speeches are all well and good, and they do achieve her goal of encouraging others to follow her, but you don't need that. Yesterday, when I was feeling sad about my mother and doubting whether her sacrifice helped anything, all it took you was a look and once sentence to make me feel better. You don't waste words on long-winded speeches because you don't need to. 'Speeches that are measured by the hour die by the hour.'" Her cheeks redden. "Sorry, I'm a bit of a quote nerd."

"No, no, I like it." I smile. "You sure you're not the motivational speaker? You've got a knack for it."

"Not like you. Trust me, Fender, you're just such a . . . a genuine guy. And you see the best in everyone, and you believe it can emerge. I guess combine all those things and it makes you the perfect speaker." She glances around the room. "Honestly, if you set your mind to it, I think you could convince anyone here of anything. Maybe it'll work for the Gamemakers too."

"What, you mean like . . . talk them out of the Hunger Games?" No, that couldn't possibly be what she's getting at; the idea sounds ridiculous the moment I say it out loud.

But Caidi doesn't contradict me. "You've got a lot going for you, Fender. Besides your speaking ability, you're a twelve-year-old boy, just like Kale Phungii. Seeing you might remind the Gamemakers of the child they lost and the shame they felt. I have a hard time believing they took Kale's death in without batting an eye. And you're innocent and cute—even if your mother was a big leader in the rebellion, I think it'll still be difficult for them to see you as the enemy."

I listened well and understood everything Caidi said, I really did. Yet when I open my mouth to respond, the only words I can manage are, "You think I'm cute?"

Her cheeks redden immediately. I grin to show I'm kidding, but inwardly I feel like I'm riding a rollercoaster; sick and overwhelmed, yet strangely elated all the same.

"Well . . ." Caidi smiles shyly. "Maybe I do."

We lapse into comfortable silence after that; no more words need to be spoken. And I find even as the pair from 2, then the pair from 3, and finally Anne and Hal are called in to do their sessions, I don't feel the same nervousness that possessed me this morning, even if my time is getting closer and closer. I still have absolutely no idea what to do, but I feel . . . I don't know. Peaceful, I suppose.

Azimuth Kurindt is called, and, after a short while, the Peacekeeper returns. "Caidi Iyaun, District Five female, you're up next."

Caidi rises to face the Peacekeeper, hesitates, then turns back to me. Before I can register what's happened, she's leaned down and kissed me lightly on the cheek. "Wish me luck," she murmurs, her cheeks blazing red as she gives me a shy smile.

"Uh, y-yeah, yeah, good luck!"

Her grin widens. She nods once, then leaves, disappearing out the door with the Peacekeeper. I glance over at my remaining allies, hoping none of them are noticing my furious blush—yes, they're all occupied. Lara-Dorsa's still talking, and Zibeline's hanging onto her every word while Miller nods and listens in a seat across from them. Aloi is still busying herself with folding origami out of napkins. Mack Ramaye, meanwhile, seems entirely lost in his own world; his face is pale, his eyes wide and unfocused as he anxiously rocks back and forth in his chair. Must be nerves.

It doesn't really hit me that I should maybe be freaking out as well until too late. Just as my heart rate starts to increase, the door opens once more, and the Peacekeeper steps through.

I'm standing before he even calls my name. Why draw it out, right? The waiting is the worst part—at least, I hope it is.

"Good luck, Fender," Miller whispers, glancing my way.

"Yeah, whatever, ditto," Aloi says, still focused on her work.

"Hope it goes well," Zibeline says, finally taking her eyes off our alliance leader.

"Make us proud," Lara-Dorsa adds, nodding and giving me an encouraging smile.

Somehow, though, it does nothing to encourage me, or quash my growing jitters as I stumble out of the room. Suddenly I find myself bombarded by regrets, feelings of _I should have planned this!_ and _why didn't I think this through?_ Here I am, being led towards a gym filled with official men and women with lab coats and clipboards who all most likely hate my guts already—and I'm supposed to _perform_ for them? What am I supposed to do?

All too soon, I find myself standing outside the gym door. The Peacekeepers pulls it open for me and gestures inside with a stiff jerk of his hand. I swallow nervously but walk in all the same; I've learned the hard way that if I show the tiniest sign of resistance, the guards here will not hesitate to beat some sense into me.

The door slams shut with a resounding _boom_ that echoes through the cavernous gym like a bell toll for a funeral. Has this place always been so big? Has the Gamemakers' balcony always been so high? I feel like an ant standing in front of them: tiny, weak, insignificant.

Yet even with this distance, I can still see the smirk on Yoriq Chentanko's face as I hesitantly step towards the centre of the room. "Fender Exxe," he says slowly, his tone impossible to place. Is he malicious? Amused? Bored? "You may proceed with your demonstration."

Someone in the line of Gamemakers snorts, and, without really knowing it, that's the moment I decide what I'm going to do. Caidi's right; these people, they have to stop treating us like inferiors, like playthings made solely for their amusement. The Hunger Games have to stop now.

"Okay," I say, clasping my hands behind my back—partly to appear more professional, and partly to hide my trembling fingers. "I actually . . . I'm just here to talk."

"Oh?" Yoriq says, though he doesn't look a bit surprised; his partner on the other hand, Daelianne Botterwurth, raises an eyebrow. "Well, don't let us stop you," the male Head Gamemaker continues, waving a hand.

"Right, right. So, um, I've been thinking this all over a lot. You know, the Hunger Games, the other tributes, you yourselves. That's really the only thing I'm good at—thinking. Three years in a dark bunker, and there wasn't much to do except that." I smile tentatively at the attempt at a joke, only to receive blank stares in return. Right, well, time to get serious.

"Ever since we've arrived here, us tributes have caused nothing but trouble for you and the Capitol. I should know—I've teamed up with some of the worst. I've seen Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer disrespect Capitolites every chance she gets, I've heard about the fight Hal caused when he arrived at the train station, I've seen Zibeline Tassle stand up to the Peacekeepers. They hate you—all of you. It's no secret. And I suppose, being on their team and who I am in terms of my mother, I should hate you too."

Where are these words coming from? I don't know, and what's more, I have absolutely no idea if I'm using them to dig my own grave. Still, I can't stop now.

"But I don't hate you. Any of you. Because I've done my thinking and I've realised how you see us. The war we started, the violence we've caused. I-I admit, there was a time when I would listen to the radio on the edge of my seat, crossing my fingers to hear of more Capitol deaths. My nanny and I, we . . . we cheered when we heard of the president's children being killed."

I break off, for the moment unable to continue. The announcement of Corra Hausler's death, and later those of Bradely and Elle Hausler as well, had seemed so spectacular at the time. Describing my reaction to the news now leaves me sick to my stomach and heavy in my heart.

"We must seem barbaric to you, just as barbaric as you seem to us. Both the Capitol and the districts have done terrible, terrible things during the war, there's proof of that. But the problem is, no one wants to admit it. No one wants to own up to their mistakes—they'd rather blame the other side for what went wrong. That's why we still hate you and you still hate us. And that's no way to build a society, off of mutual hatred."

I take a deep breath. Time to bring it home.

"I know it's not much consolation, but on behalf of all the districts, of all the people my mother led into battle, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for your losses, for your pain, for your hatred. I don't want to say I understand how you feel because everyone has their own unique burdens to bear, but I can sympathise with you. I get why you want to have these Hunger Games. You want us to feel your pain.

"But the district people already feel pain. Maybe less than you, maybe more than you, but the point is, the pain needs to stop. Someone has to be the bigger man, step down from this fight and say it is done. Otherwise, it just won't end.

"I would love to be the person to do that, to finish this fight. But I'm not in a position to do so. Neither are any of the district people. If war is a game, then this isn't our move. It's your turn to cause the pain. Do you really want to use this round to further the suffering? Or will you end this?"

My last question seems to hang in the air as I finish speaking, oddly exhausted and out of breath considering all I did was talk. I feel like I've just run a marathon though and am tensing up for another; my nerves feel like they're on fire, the contents of my stomach roiling about like lava as I search the faces of the Gamemakers for a reaction to my speech. Something, anything to tell me what they thought.

For the most part, they're all expressionless, hiding their feelings behind masks of neutrality. But on the fringes of the crowd, I can see one or two glancing at each other, eyes uncertain, lips twisted in conflict. Despite not wanting to get my hopes up, I can feel my heart leap in my chest. I-I've done it! I've actually gotten through to them.

"Thank you, Mr. Exxe." I turn to Yoriq Chentanko just as he leans back in his chair, hands lazily rising behind his head to brace it. "You may go."

Taking in his face is all I need to be sent plummeting into a pit of hopelessness. The glimmer in his eyes, the sly smile, the arrogant nonchalance of his posture—he wasn't affected at all by my words. In fact, he seems to have _expected_ them.

It doesn't matter if one or two of the others have developed a heart when it comes to caring about their tributes. This man is the one in charge, and he is the only one who can stop this. But my words stirred nothing within him—no hint of compassion, no trace of empathy, no ounce of humanity. I've failed Caidi. I've failed everyone.

* * *

><p><strong>MACK RAMAYE, 17, DISTRICT 8<strong>

I can't do this. No, no, no, I can't do this. I-I'm going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both.

"Mack?" Zibeline says softly, placing her hand close to mine on the table. She doesn't touch me though; she knows that might only make me worse. "Mack, they're calling you."

"He looks awful," Aloi says thoughtfully, holding her napkin swan up to my face. "Look, he's whiter than Phyllis!"

"Aloi, stop, get that away from his face."

"_That_? I'll have you know, Phyllis takes great offence to your words. You should apologise."

"I'm not apologising to a paper swan—"

"_Guys_," Miller interrupts firmly, speaking to them but watching me. "Seriously, he looks really sick. Maybe he should sit this out. Hey," he says, louder, to the Peacekeeper by the door. "Mack's not feeling well. Can he skip this round or forfeit or whatever?"

The man snorts. "You really think the Gamemakers care about your wellbeing?"

"Well, yes, to a certain degree, or they wouldn't have patched us up yesterday—"

"That wasn't an invitation for you to argue with me, kid. Mack Ramaye, either you start walking now or I'll drag you to the gym myself. Make a decision."

I can't move—not knowing what awaits me in the gym. Not knowing _who _awaits me. Facing her again, alone, I-I-I _can't_ . . .

The Peacekeeper rolls his eyes and starts to march towards me. Both Miller and Zibeline leap up from their chairs to protest, but before they can get themselves in trouble as well, I stand of my own accord. I didn't think I still had it in me to do anything but shake in fear; apparently the threat of potential pain at the hands of a Peacekeeper was enough to spur me on.

I want to say something reassuring to my allies before I leave. After all, there's still a part of me—a very small part of me, currently—that isn't overrun by fear and finds this whole situation embarrassing. The girl who was called before me, she was _twelve_, and she had more confidence than I could ever hope to achieve. Why can't I get it together?

But I know why, and the thought freezes words in my throat, so all I give my teammates is a tense nod that may have been a spasm of fear before I head out the door with the Peacekeeper. No need to make him touch me. With what I'm about to go through, I don't need any help dredging up memories.

"Damn kids making my job harder," the Peacekeeper mutters as I follow him down the hall and to the gym. "All right, just through here. Don't make this more difficult."

He grabs the door before me and yanks it open, gesturing for me to enter. The strange thing is, I want to comply, I really do. I don't want to inconvenience this Peacekeeper; I don't want to be a bad person. I don't want to be punished again.

But I've completely lost control of my limbs. It feels as though the skin and bones, the nerves and muscles, they're no longer my body, but prison bars, keeping my panicked soul caged like an animal. I need to get out, to get out of _here_—what was I thinking, going to the gym? Sh-sh-_she's_ right inside, waiting for me, waiting to begin another round of pain, and I can't go through that again, no, I can't do this, I can't—

With a grunt of frustration, the Peacekeeper places a hand firmly on my back and shoves me inside. Somehow, I manage to keep myself upright as I stumble inside, but the slamming of the door behind me weakens my knees to the point where I nearly collapse. This is it; I'm trapped inside the gym with a host of Gamemakers. Led by _her_.

I don't want to look up at the balcony, don't want to see the horrific reality before me, but my desire to know where my enemy sits is greater. Slowly, reluctantly, my eyes rise to the platform of Gamemakers, and even though I knew what I would see, I can't help jumping back in shock. She's there all right, and while she's not looking at me, the mere sight sends panic racing through my veins. _Her_—Daelianne Botterwurth, vice president, Head Gamemaker. And master torturer. She was the one who instigated all my s-s-sessions while I was held here. Now I'm back in a room with her, and this time the only others present are a host of men and women in lab coats who all look equally as eager to torture me as Daelianne was. Oh, Panem . . .

"Mack Ramaye." The man sitting next to Daelianne, Yoriq Chentanko, smirks as I brace myself against the back wall, trying to hold myself up. "Are you going to show us your talents or are you just going to cry in the corner like you usually do?"

Cruel snickers arise from some of the Gamemakers. I press myself further against the wall, wishing as I often do that I could melt through it and escape this place. Anywhere, _anywhere _would be better than here.

"Well, come forward," Yoriq says, beckoning to me with curling fingers. He smiles. "Don't make us get someone to _encourage _you."

"_Perhaps you require some encouragement to answer. How does two hundred volts sound?"_

"_No, no, please, I don't know anything, I told you I don't—AHHHHHH!"_

I barely manage to shake myself from the memory before it consumes me, and by that time I realise I'm standing in the middle of the gym. Unconsciously, I've done exactly as Yoriq Chentanko wished; the fear of punishment was too much to resist.

"Good," Chentanko says, grinning down at me from the balcony. "Now, what are you going to perform for us?"

Anything—anything to keep them happy and keep the pain away. Tears prick my eyes at the thought of how disappointed Zibeline and the rest of my rebellious allies would be if they could see me now, but I c-can't . . . I can't be strong like them. "W-w-what would y-you l-l-like me to d-d-do?"

"Taking our opinions into consideration? How polite. These sessions have been getting rather boring." Yoriq waves a hand around the gym. "Pick the station that best demonstrates your skills. We want to see what you're good at."

W-what I'm _good _at? But, but I'm not good at anything! My life has been nothing more than me moving from one screw-up to the next. I only seem to have one talent, and that's staying alive even when everyone, in-including myself, would rather me dead.

"We're wasting time." The sharp voice cuts like a knife through the air, and I react as though the words are a physical weapon coming towards me; with a squeak of terror, I stumble back into the camouflage station and trip over the table. Paints spill everywhere, including all over me, but I can't bring myself to care; maybe it will help me hide from that voice and the speaker I know all too well.

"It's obvious the boy is completely incompetent," Daelianne continues, looking from her clipboard to Chentanko, never letting her eyes meet mine. "We might as well send him out now and not waste anymore of our time."

"As much as I hate to agree . . ." Chentanko stares down his nose at me trembling in a puddle of paint. "Is that what you want, Mr. Ramaye? Are you going to disappoint us?"

_Of-Of course. That's all I do, after all. One disappointment after another. I was a failure of an Eighti, couldn't even crochet a potholder. I was the worst soldier on squad 8-11—heck I-I'm probably the reason we were captured. I couldn't give the Capitol what they wanted, and I also couldn't please my fellow soldiers and stay strong. Then I had to disappoint everyone by coming home, ruining my family's perfect life, screwing up my girlfriend's new relationship, messing up _everything. _Just like I'm doing now._

I lift my eyes to the balcony, and at that moment, for a split second, my gaze crosses with that of Daelianne Botterwurth. Her eyes are just as cold and calculating as I remember them, and they send chilling shivers down my already shaken spine. But something else, some foreign emotion, filters in with all the fear. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it helps me to rise from the paint and face the Gamemakers once again.

I-I have no special skills, that's true. But I . . . I have one thing I can show them. It won't earn me a good score, but maybe it will get through to these Gamemakers. Maybe, just maybe, it will help me get out of the horrors to come.

My fumbling fingers rise to my shirt collar, now wet with streaks of pain. It makes undoing the buttons even harder than usual, but somehow, I manage. The Gamemakers murmur amongst themselves, and someone laughs on the balcony, but no one tells me to stop. Daelianne has turned her gaze firmly away from me once more, but Yoriq leans forward, curious.

Every day, the first thing I do in the morning is get dressed, paying very close attention to what I wear. It has to be pants. My shirt has to have long sleeves, and it must cover my neck. I realised my mistake on the first day of training, when I wore a shirt with a looser collar and Azimuth managed to pull it back to see my scar. Now I wear only button-up shirts, with collars firmly fastened around my neck. It provokes more panic attacks, yes—sometimes I get lost in the memories and believe there are hands around my throat, or a rope choking me once more—but better that than let everyone see. If I can hide them, then maybe I can one day fool myself into believing they don't exist.

Now, though, I let people see me without my protective covering of clothing for the first time. I finish undoing the buttons and hesitantly take off my shirt; only half of my body is revealed, but it's more than enough. Some of the Gamemakers can't even hold back their gasps.

I shiver, both from the chill of being exposed and the feeling of everyone's eyes on me, travelling up and down, taking in every inch of my skin. My gaze, however, remains firmly fixed on the balcony. I don't want to look down; besides, I don't need to. I know the pattern of my body, where each scar carves into my skin, where they intersect, where some form words, others numbers, and still others with no meaning at all, designed only to cause pain.

"I-I-I only have one s-skill," I manage to stammer out. The Gamemakers are all watching me, but my eyes are focused solely on the only one who doesn't look my way. Daelianne keeps her gaze firmly fixed on her lap as I continue, "A-and that's-that's staying a-alive. Even with . . . even with . . ." I can't find the words to describe it—besides, my throat is closing up—so all I can do is gesture wordlessly at my body and the myriad of scars I know are present.

"Y-y-y-you, y-you . . ." It's getting harder to speak now, but for some reason, I know I have to finish. "Y-you . . . you t-t-tortured me once a-a-already." A violent shudder wracks my body, provoking the tears in my eyes to start rolling down my cheeks. "P-Please, please, _please_, d-don't make me g-go through that a-a-again. _Please_."

The last word comes out as a sob as I find myself unable to hold back my break down any longer. Sinking to the floor, I dissolve into hysterics, whimpering into my hands and feeling the deluge of hot tears racing down my cheeks. Over and over, my desperate pleas play in my head. _Please, don't make me go through that again. I don't want to be hurt anymore. I don't want to go into the Games. Please, somebody help me, for once._

I barely catch Yoriq's voice over the sound of my sobs. "Well, that is a useful talent to have. Perhaps it will serve you well in the arena." I glance up from my hands, eyes blurry but still able to make out Yoriq's smirk. "Good luck in the Hunger Games, Mack Ramaye."

I think I passed out after that. Yoriq's words were the defining blow, the final push I needed to lose any sliver of hope I had left within me. There's no stopping the Hunger Games from happening. In less than two days, these people will send me into an arena of pain and death, where I will relive my worst nightmares a-all over again.

* * *

><p><strong>ELANIE HOBBERT, 16, DISTRICT 9<strong>

It doesn't take long for the Peacekeeper to come get me after he brought Miller in. I don't know what my district partner did, but frankly, I'm not surprised it didn't take long. He has no outstanding skills that I know of, and anyways, he might even have done nothing, or done something to mess with the Capitol in some way. Him and his little rebel alliance seem to be into that.

_Don't think about them, _I lecture myself as I follow the Peacekeeper out of the cafeteria. _Think about _your _alliance. Think about Mike and his instructions. Smuggle out the tuner, amplifier, and detector. He'll do the rest._

Sometimes, I still find it hard to believe Mikael Rasauf is allied with me. I woke up this morning thinking I was all alone before the memory hit, and then I couldn't stop smiling. As soon as he heard about my history and my desire to contact 13, Mike was hooked. I think it was the challenge that reeled him in, to be honest. Nerds love to test their skills. I should know; I was friends with the biggest nerd in 9.

_Milo_. Just thinking his name makes my lips quirk upwards. I have no doubt he's taking care of my sibling back home, all the while trying madly to get his makeshift radio working for me. He doesn't have to worry about it anymore; I'm working on that too, and no offense to him, but the Capitol has way better technology, not to mention I've got _the_ radio guy from 3 helping me out. We'll contact 13, I know we will, because it can'tbe all gone, it just _can't_. It's not common knowledge, but our primary industry was nuclear science and technology. No way my people could have been taken off guard by the very weapons they help to make. They're out there, I know they are. I'll find them, tell them what's going on with the Hunger Games, and get them to help us. They'll save all us tributes from the Capitol.

But, if that . . . if that doesn't happen, at least I'll find them. For Inala, Laurette and Garric. My siblings deserve to grow up in their true home. If I can prove 13 still exists, maybe Milo can get my siblings out there somehow, or maybe I can when I come back.

_If _I come back.

_Don't think about that either. _I've resolved not to think of my strategy for the Games beyond getting the radio to work. Stupid? Perhaps, but in order to think up how I'm to win the Games, I would need to consider the death of my ally, most likely at my hands. There's no way we can work together if we're plotting each other's eventual death at the same time; I'm sure Mike has come to that same conclusion. So, for now, I think we've both decided to abide by the rule that _whatever happens, happens. _We'll stick it out until then.

I enter the gym with confident strides, already making my way to the technology station. "I can start whenever, yes?" I call out as I go, my eyes flitting to the Gamemakers on the balcony.

The female Head Gamemaker, Daelianne, is frowning down at her clipboard, but her male counterpart is paying attention. "Yes, I suppose you may," Yoriq says, smiling. "You're awfully eager. It's a nice change."

"Well, I'm here now, and you're watching me. Might as well make good use of my session. No point in complaining and wasting everyone's time."

"I appreciate your sense. If only we had more tributes like you."

"If only indeed." I settle myself down at the technology station, flipping through the thick booklet of instructions on how to build various devices before finding the one I'd decided on earlier. What I'm making here doesn't actually matter; I just need to create enough opportunities for myself to slip away the parts Mike needs to finish the little radio he's creating around his watch—we'll sneak it into the arena by pretending it's a "token".

"All right," I say, holding up the instruction booklet for the Gamemakers to see. "I'm going to demonstrate my technological skills for you today by building a small, portable heater."

Interesting—Chentanko's head shot up as soon as I mentioned the device. "Any reason for a heater in particular?"

"No. Should there be?"

"No, no. Continue."

Hmm . . . that's not suspicious at all. I glance around at the other training stations. Mike and I mostly focused on this one, but for the first day I toured the gym by myself, taking in what each had to offer. Treatments for frostbite and hypothermia were taught at the first aid station. Part of the obstacle course is made up of heavy, foam-like stuff that makes it hard to run through, not unlike snow. At the water station, there was an explanation on how to draw clean water from many sources, including snow and ice. It's not much, but with Yoriq's sudden interest in why I'm making a heater . . . could it be some of the training stations directly reflect what we'll be facing in the arena? If so, we'll be facing someplace cold and snowy. _Damn._ I hate the cold.

Making a mental note to recount this info to Mike later, I get started on building my heater. Really, this is no demonstration of my "technological skills". An idiot could put this thing together as long as he followed instructions. I don't even have to make or improvise the parts; they're all set out for me in neat little boxes on the table.

Which reminds me . . . "Oh, crap," I say as my arm sweeps a little too wide across the table, accidentally knocking over a bunch of boxes of parts—"accidentally". "Hold one, one second, please," I call up to the Gamemakers, scurrying to clean up my mess on the other side of the table, which conveniently blocks me from view. "I swear, I'm not normally this clumsy!"

I continue making vague excuses and apologising as I scour the spilled parts for what I need. _Tuner, amplifier, detector. _Mike and I spent all of training yesterday going over what the parts look like. We would have grabbed them then too, but security was tighter after that idiot from 10 smuggled out a knife and nearly killed a kid with it. It's still pretty tight, as a matter of fact, but I'm rather lucky to be a part of the female sex; I used to lament being rather large chested, but now I can appreciate the special "pocket" I have that no one ever thinks to check.

_Detector. _I spot the part and quickly drop it down my shirt. _And now . . . ah, amplifier. Tuner. Yes._

I hurriedly shovel the rest of the parts back into the box and rise, praying no one will notice anything odd about my shirt. The parts are small and shouldn't be noticeable through the fabric, but you never know.

No one says anything though, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief. The hardest part is done. As long as I don't let on how uncomfortable I feel with technological parts jabbing me in the chest, I should be fine.

I finish the rest of the heater rather quickly, making sure none of my rapid movement dislodges any of the components in my bra. Miraculously, for the first time since I arrived in the Capitol, all goes well.

"Tada," I say, half-sarcastic as I turn the heater on. It does work, at least; a warm breezes radiates outwards, toasting my hands nicely. "Do you want to get someone down here to see if it works?"

"No, no, that's fine!" one of the lesser Gamemakers says hurriedly, glancing nervously at Yoriq, who nods. Hmm, perhaps something else was tested earlier on with less than desirable results?

"We'll take your word for it, Ms. Hobbert," Yoriq says. "You're free to leave. Thank you for your cooperation."

_And thank you for your ignorance, _I finish inwardly, turning to leave. I stride out of the gym without a second glance, parts for the radio pressed reassuringly against my chest.

* * *

><p><strong>FASCIA SHEWART, 18, DISTRICT 10<strong>

"I'm not doing anything," I announce as soon as I step inside the gym. "So either dismiss me now or watch me nap for fifteen minutes. Don't matter either way for me."

"Come, Ms. Shewart, surely there is something you can do for us." That damned Chentanko smiles, gesturing to the back of the gym. "We've even set up a small forge, just for you! Why don't you show us your skills?"

If this man had any idea how a blacksmith actually works, he'd know I couldn't even a damn nail in fifteen minutes, let alone anything moderately impressive. I glare up at him. "If you want to see my skills, just take a look around the gym. All these weapons are my designs. And by the way, whoever made these knockoffs did a shitty job."

"Then why don't you improve them? I'm sure you can make something _spectacular_."

His eyes are glinting with that same damn amusement he had when he told me I'd have the opportunity to gain riches beyond my wildest dreams. Oh, so he thinks this is funny, does he? He thinks I'm some show pony he can gawk and play around with before sending me off to the glue factory? Fine—he wants to see some talent, I'll show him some fucking talent.

I storm over to the swordplay station and grab a rack with five blades. It screeches as I drag it across the floor towards the forge, and I note with satisfaction many of the Gamemakers seem irritated by the noise. See, I came to the conclusion the other day that the reason I didn't join the rebel alliance ain't necessarily because I don't want to anger the Gamemakers. It's more 'cause I don't want to lift a finger to fight a fight I ain't a part of. I've got no grudge against the Capitol; these men and women in their dorky lab coats, however, I've got a _bone _to pick with. Ain't no way I'm playing nice with them.

"Oh, and you're not allowed to see 'til I'm done," I call up to the Gamemakers, ditching the sword rack by the forge and going to grab the large target set up at the archery range. It's tall and heavy, but I have no trouble hauling it over to sit in front of the forge. "No peeking."

Once my barricade is in place, I set to work. One sword is fine as it is, but I need to bend the rest if I'm going to make this work. It pains me to purposely mess up a blade, even if it is a crappy one at that, but it needs to be done. I've got a _lot _of pent-up rage burning in me, and I need to let it out.

I grab the first sword by the handle and lay it in the coals of the forge (already heated. How _thoughtful_ of Chentanko). Soon, the blade starts to grow warm, then hot, the middle of the weapon turning from a sleek and silvery grey to a blazing red. I take it out and lay it on the anvil immediately, grabbing hammer resting on the ground and quickly setting to work. The familiar _bang, bang, bang_ of metal on metal rings out as I beat the sword into a curved shape, and while the work I'm doing is terrible quality, I find myself getting lost in the rhythmic swings of the hammer. This was my childhood—it's been my whole life. Ma knew she was dying with that disease of hers when I was little, and she also knew the rest of her family would be no good at replacing her. My father, she loves him, but he was a spineless weakling through and through. Older siblings couldn't have done nothing either; somehow they got it in their heads that they were too good for the farm life, deserved to move to District 10's main city to live "properly". So I learned, and I kept our smithy running for two years after Ma died and three more after Pa followed her to the grave. This is my element.

But I've got a time limit right now, so I can't get to into it. Deciding the sword is good enough for what I have in mind, I shove it in the barrel of cool water next to the anvil, reveling in the _hiss_ of heat being extinguished. Gotta head to the next one though and fast.

Thankfully, it seems Chentanko is giving me a bit of extra time to finish my project. I'm sure more than fifteen minutes has passed as I finish the second, then the third, and finally the fourth sword, but the Gamemakers say nothing. Good—they'll see soon enough.

Heading back to the sword rack, I balance my four now-curved swords on the outer sections. The one I left untouched goes in the middle, positioned so that its blade sticks straight up in the air. Good enough? Yeah, I think it's good enough.

With a powerful kick, I knock down the bull's-eye barrier in front of me, revealing my creation to the Gamemakers. "Behold," I say, putting on the fakest fancy tone I can muster. "My masterpiece."

It takes them a moment—like I said, the quality of the work isn't great. But once Chentanko laughs—of course he's the first to get it—they all start to understand. The four blades on the outside, now that I've curved them, resembled fingers bent at the knuckles while the sword in the middle stands tall and proud. I've made a middle finger out of weapons.

"That's rather rude, you know," Chentanko says after his chuckles have subsided. "I don't think that was a smart move on your part. Now I'm tempted to give you a zero."

"Good, then my score will match the number of fucks I give." I give him a mocking salute and stride towards the gym doors. "Do whatever you want. I'm out. Adios."

* * *

><p><strong>LEE TUSS, 17, DISTRICT 11<strong>

It takes a long time before I'm called to go, like, seriously long. At that point there's only me, Arbor and the kids from 12 left in the cafeteria, and it's awkward, to say the least. The 12 boy keeps looking at us like he's expecting an angry outburst at any moment, and the girl is folding an army of napkin swans, which is pretty weird. Isn't she nervous? I'm freaking out over here.

"Good luck," Arbor whispers to me as the Peacekeeper finally returns. I nod and shuffle out the door. Honestly, I shouldn't be worried. I mean, what do these scores even matter, right?

I remember exactly why I should be worried the moment I step inside the gym. The Gamemakers are _intimidating_, man. With their fancy lab coats and freakish hair/skin/eye colours, like, yikes. Also, they're all waiting for some spectacular display of strength and skill, and I, well, can't really do much of anything.

But that's good—I'll fly under the radar that way. Mine and Arbor's plan might not work if we stood out too much.

"So, um, I guess I just start, huh?" I say, coming to a stop in the middle of the gym. Only the two Head Gamemakers are looking in my direction—everyone else seems bored out of their minds. I guess I would be too, if I had to watch twenty-four kids try and show off their skills when most of us have probably never even touched a weapon before.

I head over to the fire-starting station, only because that's something I'm moderately good at. Arbor's probably going to do the same—thanks to the tracker jacker situation back home, us Elevians have gotten _real _good at making torches.

Of course, both mine and Arbor's primary skill is rope tying considering we've been practicing non-stop for the past three days, but we decided that wasn't something we should show the Gamemakers. No point in tipping them off as to what we're planning. We've already had too many close calls with almost getting caught smuggling rope back to our rooms. Thankfully no one noticed the first two days, but by the third, we had to stop thanks to that guy who got caught with the knife. I mean, seriously, dude? First off, trying to steal a weapon in order to _stab _someone is not cool, and secondly, way to screw over anyone else trying to smuggle stuff out of training. I'm sure Arbor and I aren't the only ones with a plan—the others couldn't possibly be stupid enough to accept this, could they? Whatever, as long as their escape attempts don't mess with ours, we're good.

The fire station has numerous methods of lighting wood—matches, flint and tinder, sticks to rub together—as well as three contained piles of twigs and branches for you to practice on. I methodically go through each, setting fire to the wood with ease. It's a rather lackluster performance, but hey, at least I can say I tried.

"So, am I good them?" I ask as three warm fires blaze before me.

The Head Gamemaker guy, Yoriq Chentanko, raises an eyebrow. "That's all you wanted to show us?"

"Uh, yep?"

"Really? But you didn't you spend a lot of time training at _other_ stations as well?"

My heart freezes in my chest. He-He noticed us? Does he suspect? "Oh, well, yeah," I stammer, trying desperately to think up a good excuse. "But, uh, the skills never took. Fire's something I knew from the beginning and even with all the training for other stuff, I'm still best at it. I'm a slow learner." I laugh, trying to pass the gesture off as self-deprecating, not nervous. "Guess I won't be getting a very high score, huh?"

"We're not allowed to share that information with you," Daelianne Botterwurth pipes up from beside Yoriq.

"But no, you probably won't," her partner adds. He's still looking at me with raised eyebrows, his eyes glinting with . . . amusement? It's like he can read everything about me on my face, and what he sees entertains him. Gah, it's freaking me out.

"So, I can go now, then?" I ask, already stepping back towards the door. "I'll leave to admire my handiwork and, uh, yeah. See you. Thanks for your time and everything."

I turn around quickly and hurry out of the gym. That guy, Yoriq . . . no, he couldn't know what Arbor and I are up to, could he? No . . . no. If he did, he'd have stopped us already. So we're in the clear. We're in the clear.

Yet I can't shake the anxious feeling that somehow, sometime soon, something is going to go terribly wrong.


	15. Science and Sadism

_**This chapter's a bit of an interlude, taking a break from the tributes to get some backstory on the Head Gamemakers. They're both a bit . . . interesting to say the least, so just a heads up, this gets a bit twisted at the end. Not in terms of gore or whatever, but they're thought processes can be a bit weird.**_

_**Also, I should have mentioned this sooner, but obviously I don't own the Hunger Games :) Also, I thought I should mention that I'm following book canon (obviously with a few changes since this is the 1st Games vs the 74th). With the reapings, there was no pricking fingers or movie playing or whatnot. This also means kids younger than 14 are not necessarily doomed in the arena. I think it was only in the Catching Fire movie where they explicitly stated Finnick was the youngest victor at 14. I haven't read the books in a while, so I might be wrong - if I am, we'll just say I'm disregarding that part of canon :) Not to say a young kid WILL win, just don't rule out the possibility. Anything can happen in the arena (which we'll see in four chapters!)**_

_**Thanks very much for reading!**_

* * *

><p><strong>DAELIANNE BOTTERWURTH, VICE PRESIDENTHEAD GAMEMAKER**

I'm one of the first to leave after the private training sessions are finished. It's not like the others need me around anyways. Every Gamemaker has a small tablet, and during each of the tributes' performances, the score they believed said tribute deserved was input into their devices, where it is automatically sent to a private file only I and Yoriq Chentanko have access to. We're going to get together in an hour, after both of us take a break for a bit, to discuss the final scores we would allot to each tribute.

_Fifty-five minutes now, _I think, checking the clock on my phone. _Still plenty of time. _The Gamemaker Headquarters are barely a ten-minute drive from the Training Centre, and besides, Chentanko is notorious for being late to meetings. I have more than enough time to get there before him and do . . . well, whatever I come up with on the drive over. I'm still not entirely sure.

Part of me knows this is dangerous; I'm thinking with my heart right now, not my head, and that always, _always _leads to disaster. _Take a deep breath of fresh air, _I order myself just as I step out the front doors of the Training Centre and head towards my car. _Slowly—there. Now calm yourself._

It's no good. I wrack my mind for any tips I can remember from my self-help relaxation tapes, but my eidetic memory has been smothered by the tumultuous furor of emotions ravaging my soul. It's all the logical side of my brain can do to keep me in check as I start the drive to HQ much faster than I usually do. My car horn, never before used, is slammed three times during the short trip. On any other day, I'd feel bad for allowing my impatience seep onto the road, but right now I have something I need to do _now_.

I slide into the closest parking spot to the HQ doors, practically screeching to a stop and almost forgetting to take my keys out of the car in my haste to leave. _Forty-nine minutes._ So much for that being a ten-minute drive.

The elevator can't seem to come fast enough as I wait in the lobby, bouncing on my heels restlessly and thanking the world no one is around to see me behave so unprofessionally. Everyone else has been given the night off besides Chentanko and myself; just trying to imagine twenty Gamemakers arguing over tribute scores gives me a headache.

I'm honestly about to take the stairs, figuring I can run faster than the sluggish elevator, when the damned thing finally arrives. I leap through the doors and practically slam the button that will take me up to our main control centre, where all information for the soon-to-be Hunger Games is stored.

The elevator doors can't open again fast enough. As soon as they do, I sprint out into the hall, ignoring the fact that I'm in rather high heels and this could be a good setup for a sprained ankle. I manage to keep my footing, however, and make it to the control room without incident. Now to find Chentanko's files.

The first one I bring up is the plan for the beginning of the Games, how my co-worker has decided to arrange all of the tributes in the large circle surrounding his "Cornucopia". I didn't see why this setup was so important, so I let him do what he want with it; I haven't even seen it until now.

The hologram pops up, small likenesses of each tribute standing on their designated plate surrounding the gleaming Cornucopia. I spin the projection around furiously with my hand, watching each tribute whizz past me. _Where is he? Where _is_ he?_

I must have passed him at least three time before I finally register the information. This isn't good; my emotions are affecting my vision, taking physical toll as well as mental. I need to calm down.

But first I need to finish this. The tribute I'm looking for has been placed between Zibeline Tassle and Lara-Dorsa Tuppenheimer. Both his allies . . . actually, now that I look at it, the entire rebel alliance is together on one side of the Cornucopia, save Fender Exxe, who is stranded alone along the opposite edge. What was Chentanko thinking when he planned this?

No, it doesn't matter, I can question him about this later; for now, I have to take care of other things. Would my co-worker notice if I rearranged the tribute positions, placed the boy currently safe between his allies between some less friendly folk? No, an idiot would notice that; besides, there's no way to know for sure which of these tributes will actually start killing when the time comes. Chentanko and I have high hopes for some, but you can never tell who might discover their hidden morality.

With the possibility of death by other tributes defeated, I point at the holographic section of the arena nearest the tribute in question and watch what pops up. All throughout the construction of this setting, I did nothing but complain about Chentanko's ridiculous ideas for traps and pitfalls. To be fair, I didn't see the point in them—if the whole point of the Hunger Games is to get the tributes killing each other, isn't interference on our part, well, cheating?

Now, though, I'm glad for the chance to meddle. Not a few metres away from the boy is something rather nasty-looking, which Chentanko has labeled _Fun Happy Death Times_. That man, I swear. I roll my eyes as I tap the trap icon, waiting for the documents to pop up and give me information. Hopefully it's something smaller—I don't want to get rid of too many tributes, just the one. I can't have that boy around, not after—

"I knew you were punctual, Dae, dear, but you've really outdone yourself this time."

I whirl around to face the door and my snide, smirking co-worker leaning against it. Damn, he's quiet.

I grit my teeth as he lazily pulls his phone out of his pocket. "Forty minutes until we're supposed to meet, and yet here you are. You're quite the eager beaver."

"Why are you here?" I snap. I have no time for his silly small talk.

"It would seem I'm an eager beaver today as well. I just couldn't _wait _to discuss the tribute scores," he says with the most honest expression, which immediately tells me he's lying. Of course—he was smirking at me all throughout the private training sessions, watching my every move and waiting for the opportunity to talk. I wouldn't be surprised if he followed me all the way here.

"So, you want to talk about the scores first?" Chentanko asks, taking a step further into the room. His eyes dart to the hologram on the projector behind me, and his shark smile widens. "Or should we discuss whatever it is you're doing?"

I grit my teeth and slam my hand down on the keyboard behind me. The hologram disappears. "Scores."

I expect him to argue, but surprisingly, he throws himself into the nearest chair and nods. "Right. So I already scanned the document," he says, rolling over to one of our larger monitors and quickly drawing up the online file that holds all of the Gamemakers' scores. "And all I can say is, their marking is horrendous. Truly, truly terrible."

I frown, reluctantly sliding into a seat next to him and scrolling down the file for myself. Most of the Gamemakers assigned relatively similar scores to each of the tributes, and they align with what I myself would have given the kids. "What's the problem?"

Chentanko's jaw drops so far, I believe it has come unhinged. Honestly, the man _has _to stop with these overdramatic expressions. Is it really so hard for him to believe others don't think the same way as he does?

"_Problem_?" he gasps dramatically after a few moments, completely ignoring my eyeroll. "_Problem_? There are problems everywhere!"

"You have a problem with a ten for Glamour?"

"Ten is too high—we can't make it obvious we're favouring him. Knock it down to a nine, at least."

"Nine, ten, there's not much difference," I mutter, although inwardly, I agree (not that you'd ever catch me telling Chentanko that). I make note of our decision in the document and move on to the next tribute. "And his district partner."

Elegance Lamoore—now _she's _an interesting case. Most of the Gamemakers have given her low scores, which I can understand; obviously they were shocked and horrified at her supposed "skill". I still can't entirely believe she had the guts to do that. In the shadow of her trained, muscular partner, the girl seemed like a skinny, shallow harlot, hiding her lack of brains behind an attractive exterior. Now, however, I realise I've underestimated her; her appearance is a cover, sure, but it's to hide her intelligence, not her stupidity.

I hadn't realised it at first, during her private training session. When she'd walked in and announced she would be demonstrating her _cooking _skills, of all things, we Gamemakers had laughed, even knowing her history. Who could have predicted the outcome? Yes, there was a small arena cuisine station to prepare tributes for cooking with improvised ingredients and tools, but there was nothing poisonous in the mix.

We watched as she prepared her meal, humming absent-mindedly to herself as she cooked. When she offered for two of our servants to test the meal and judge her skill, we thought nothing of it. Only when they were on the ground in piles of sick, unable to stop the vomiting, did we pay attention when Elegance Lamoore smiled sweetly and said, "Beans are an excellent survival food, sure, but did you know red kidney beans are poisonous? Especially when cooked at temperatures below boiling." She took her small pot by the handle, slowly pouring the lukewarm water over the nearest pile of vomit. "Oops."

"M-M-Miss Lamoore!" Graciela, one of the Gamemakers I appointed, had stammered from her chair. "What . . .? How . . .? Y-You can't do that!"

"They won't die, if that's what you're worried about," Elegance said, stepping neatly around one of the groaning servants. "Just a bit of severe nausea. But I think it proves my point," she continued, staring directly at Chentanko and I, shedding her mask of ditzy stupidity for the first time. "As you can see, I fully believe you're carrying through with the Hunger Games, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to ensure my safety."

Quite the audacious move on her part, but effective nevertheless. I personally would have given her a score of . . . no, I can't think like that. Not anymore.

"Give her a ten."

"What?" I stare at Chentanko, unsure as to whether he actually spoke, or I just imagined him voicing my thoughts.

But he's staring at me expectantly, waiting for me to make note on the document. "A ten. Come on, you don't think her demonstration was impressive."

_Yes—yes, I do._ "I . . . But, higher than Glamour? I thought we wanted him to get the sponsor money."

"Again, we can't make favouring him too obvious, can we? Besides, I'm starting to think she's more of the champion we're looking for."

Just when I think we might finally be seeing eye to eye, he says something stupid. "_Really_? I'd hopethat isn't the case, considering _you_ picked Glamour _yourself_ to wipe out the rebels and win for the Capitol. Are you saying we wasted _six months _of training because _you _picked the wrong kid?"

"I was joking, Dae. Let it go."

"Do _not _call me that."

"Fine, _Miss Botterwurth_," he says, throwing all the derision into the name that he can. "But I still think Elegance deserves the score."

There's something more going on here, that much I can tell. I want to push Chentanko further, but part of me knows that's useless; if the man doesn't want to talk, he won't. Plus there's the fact that I actually _agree_ with the score . . . fine.

I make a note next to the girl's name and we continue. The Twovians were both surprisingly impressive—they've picked up a lot in the few short days of training we've given them—and Yoriq and I both decide on an eight for the boy and a seven for the girl. The Threeks, of course, were less exciting. True to her district, the girl receives a 3 for her attempt at using a slingshot, and after much debate, the boy gets a 5 for his tech skills. "Shouldn't we give him lower?" I demand, reluctantly keying in the new score. President Hausler won't like this. "He was working for the rebels, after all."

"Ah, but if we're just going to give all the rebels low scores, that defeats the purpose of a having a marking system." I frown, still confused, and Chentanko continues, "Take a look at the Fours. What have they got?"

"General consensus is a two. It's the same for all the members of their alliance, except Tuppenheimer." She needs to have the lowest score, after all. All the Gamemakers want her to know that, as far as scum goes, she's the absolute worst.

Chentanko shakes his head. "Please. You think you're punishing the girl by giving her the _lowest_ score? Come on, the others may be idiots, but I know you're smarter than this. What would _you_ give the girl?"

To be really, truthfully honest? A four. Something so painfully average she couldn't possibly take anything from it. It's not hard to see the girl's competitive streak; so give half her alliance incredibly low scores, indicating their proficiency at making the Capitol hate them, then give the other half high scores, indicating they genuinely impressed us, and stick her in the middle seething about her mediocrity until her alliance tears itself apart.

But that's an idea I've come up with using a part of my mind I swore to no longer touch. No, I said no more analysing others, no more planning on how to take them down. That's sick. I'm not supposed to do that. I'm not supposed to _want_ to do that.

"I'd give her a one, same as everyone else."

"Come on, what's gotten into you? Hate me if you must, but I thought we at least saw eye to eye on most things. Where's the Mme_Xcruciation I used to know?"

My blood freezes in my veins. Deadly quiet, I whisper, "What was that?"

Oblivious to my dangerous tone, Chentanko's smile goes. "Oh, forgot to mention, I did a little bit of digging during the sessions after Ramaye's. Who could blame me, honestly, practically all those tributes are boring as hell. But anyways, I didn't have to search much—I remembered you well enough. Only user on District DamNation who's ever vanished, history erased completely. You used to be so active on the forums though. What was that one you headed? 'How would you best torture a district soldier for information/fun?' We all had such a lovely chat about it, and I contributed quite a lot, remember? I'm—"

"Deddeyes. I know." My hands are clenched tightly into fists, and I can feel a vein throbbing in my forehead. This is _not_ a conversation I want to have, and yet I can't make myself leave; I'm worried if I allow myself to move, I won't be able to restrain myself from punching Chentanko. Not that it would be the worst thing in the world . . .

"So you knew all along?" Chentanko chuckles. "I should have known. You always seemed like the smartest one on the site. Came up with so many plans for Project Hunger Games—it really was a blow when you left. The idea was practically your brainchild, why did you abandon it? And why aren't you more excited to be working on the real thing?"

I can't answer that. My façade is weakening already; if Chentanko keeps prodding, it will crumble, all the work I've put in over the past seven months (let's face it, over my whole _life_) will shatter into ruins. I'm not supposed to let that happen.

"Ah." Chentanko, damn him, is too smart for his own good; even with my silence, I can see the light of realisation in his eyes. "Of course, I remember. Very public affair, when Panem's VP is divorced, even more so with that whole ugly issue of who got to keep the child. Mr. Botterwurth find out what you were up to? Was scared for poor baby Botterwurth?"

He didn't find out; I told him. It was the day we'd finally broken one of the rebels and revealed the plans for 6's next attack. I rushed home in excitement to tell Joel I'd had a breakthrough at work and, ever the loving husband, he'd asked for all the details. He'd never really known what I worked on before, besides the tamer jobs I'd taken on as VP; I'd always been too afraid to tell him about my real specialty. But that night, I'd been so elated, I'd told him—everything. Even though I remembered how my parents had reacted when I was younger, the looks on the faces of my teachers when I turned in my "unique" science experiments as a kid, I still told him, because Joel was my husband, and we loved each other, so obviously we could accept everything about the other.

I'd never been more wrong in my life. He was . . . well, horrified is a mild way of putting it. The thought that I'd broken a nineteen-year-old boy, that I'd been using the same techniques on other, younger soldiers, it had disgusted him, and made him fear what I might do to our child. Which was ridiculous. Reece was my boy, my darling, my everything. Why would I ever lay a finger on him?

Once again, the words of a rebel soldier come to mind, a rebel soldier I'd been hoping never to see again because of how he haunts me.

"_Really, this is becoming quite tedious," I say over the sound of screams, which slowly turn to ragged whimpers as I lower the red hot poker. "Aren't you bored of the same thing over and over again? Don't you want to switch things up? Perhaps finally give us some ANSWERS?"_

_I punctuate the last word with another thrust of the blazing poker. More screams, no words. Hmm, we have been at this for a while. Perhaps he's lost the ability to speak._

"_Ma'am?" The door to the cell opens, and I turn away from my chained companion to face the newcomer. It's Mariella, one of my employees. She mostly does office work, but I've let her into the torture chambers a few times. She's eager to prove herself. "Your husband and son are on the phone."_

_I frown, confused. Sure, I've been practically sleeping at work for the past week and haven't seen either Joel or Reece at least four days, but they know not to call me at work unless it's an emergency. My heart leaps in my chest, but another thought enters my head. "Wait, what day is it?" I've completely lost track, holed up here._

"_September 4__th__, ma'am."_

_My God, I can't believe I forgot. "My son's birthday," I answer in response to Mariella's questioning look. "I should take the call."_

_I'm about to hand the poker over to her, but the laughter stops me. Or perhaps it's sobs; the tone is so hysterical, I can't tell._

_I turn back to the rebel soldier. His chest is a map of older scars blotted out by fresh burns, red and ugly. It's been a while since he's had the energy to stand on his feet; right now the only things supporting him are the chains attached to the wall, bound around his wrists and pulling his arms taut so he can't hope to protect himself. And yet he has the stamina to _laugh_?_

"_What?" I snap, shoving the poker dangerously close to his cheek. He flinches, but the reaction isn't as dramatic as I've come to expect. The pain must be making him loopy._

"_S-S-September 1__st__ was m-my b-birthday," he coughs out, his dazed eyes lifting to mine. "I-I'm s-s-seventeen."_

"_Remind me to get you a cake."_

"_I-I'm just a kid!" he blurts out, and now he's definitely crying as he stares up at me. "J-J-Just like . . . oh P-Panem, how can you have a s-s-son? H-How can you do this to-to k-kids, then go h-h-home to y-yours? How can you l-l-look him in the e-eye and—"_

_He ends with a screech as I drive the poker into the already tender flesh of his shoulder. I don't pull away until he's passed out from the pain._

"_Can you handle cleanup, Marie?" I ask, handing her the poker and stepping away from the unconscious soldier._

"_Sure thing, boss. Tell Reece happy birthday for me."_

"_Thanks, I will."_

I didn't want to ever see that boy again. The worst part, though, was that this desire did not stem from repulsion or guilt at what I'd done to him. No, I was _angry_. Angry he had shown me up, and angry I hadn't fully managed to ruin him. I'd wanted another go, to find out what truly made him tick and what would destroy him once and for all. But I have to quench those feelings; they're not 'socially acceptable'. So I convinced President Hausler to return the soldier to his district, where he would be much too far to tempt me.

But now he's back—Mack Ramaye, youngest soldier of Squad 8-11, trying to pick up the pieces after I broke him and, annoyingly, succeeding better than I'd thought. He reeks of work half-finished; he teases me by standing before the Gameamkers and revealing his scars, proving he was merely cracked but not yet shattered. I desperately want to pick up where I left off, and what better place to do so than the arena? Yet there, the torture would be public, and I can't have others knowing what lies beneath my surface. My parents always said such behaviour was inappropriate, among other words. So he needs to be killed quickly, before my temptation overcomes my restraint.

Too late, I realise delving into my memories with Chentanko watching is a huge mistake. The man can read people like a book, and he's staring at me now with an all-too-knowing grin.

"Oh, come on, is that really it?" His voice is practically a purr as he rolls over to me in his chair. "Family issues, really? Hubby left with the kid? Oh, and let me guess, parents probably had a hand in it too. Were they scared? Did they send you to doctors? Did they—"

"_Don't_ talk about my family," I hiss, my gaze murderous as I grab his wrist. "Lest you want me to fight fire with fire."

He doesn't flinch, not even as my nails dig into his skin, but I can tell my words have had an effect on him. For the first time since I've met him, all traces of his pompous, joking aura vanish, leaving me with a man who looks fully prepared to kill me. Most would turn and run with their tails between their legs, but I'm equally as furious as he and have worse on him than he does on me. Oh, he hid his past well, all right, but I'm no amateur hacker. The stuff I dug up on him, I barely believed, but then again, it takes a sick history to make a sick creep like Chentanko.

"Shall we talk about your parents?" I seethe, tightening my grip on his wrist. "Or, no, how about your uncle? He was the more . . . _interesting_ one, wasn't he? How did it feel when—?"

"_ENOUGH_!"

If I hadn't been staring right at him, I wouldn't have believed he'd been the one to shout. I've never heard him raise his voice.

The outburst seems to shock both of us, and soon Chentanko and I are blinking at each other bemusedly like we're not entirely sure how we wound up here.

"Well," Chentanko murmurs after a pause. "That . . . escalated rather quickly."

"Indeed. We're supposed to be professionals."

"Indeed. Which means you can stop grabbing my wrist."

I hadn't realised I still was. Releasing my hold, I turn firmly back to the computer screen and lay my hands back on the keyboards. "Should we resume with the scores?"

"Can I ask you a question first?" I shoot him a look, and he holds his hands up in surrender. "Not about family. Sort of."

"Chentanko—"

"Look, don't answer if you don't want to, all right? But I just want to know: why?"

"Why what?" I snap.

"Why listen to them. Everyone who ever told you what you do—what you think—is wrong. Why change for them?"

My laugh lacks all humour. "My . . . way of thinking isn't exactly conducive to a healthy society."

"Why not?"

"Excuse me?"

"To most people, pain is awful, right? Nothing good comes of it. Well, that's a rather pessimistic view to have, isn't it? I'm personally a glass-half-full type. I find beauty where others see only tragedy. And I think you do."

I'm starting to feel angry at him again, even more so when I realise it's because part of me is screaming, _Someone who understands!_ "Some things aren't meant to hold beauty."

"Only if you close your mind, think like the rest of the cattle in Panem. Have you ever scolded someone for flinching when they watch another suffer?"

"No."

"Then why should they scold you for enjoying it?"

"Because . . ."

The words die on my lips. I can think of a million arguments, ones drilled into my head over and over by my parents, my teachers, my doctors, but I can't voice any of them. Is it because I don't _want_ to? Is it because I finally want to hear that what I think might not be so horrendously wrong?

And is it so bad to want that?

Chentanko smiles, the most strangely genuine smile I've ever seen him wear. "You're a scientist, Daelianne, plain and simple. You see the scientific value in everything, even where other, duller minds don't. You want to push the human body to its limits, want to experiment with others, run tests, conduct analyses. Is that so wrong?"

"Say I am a scientist. What would that make you?"

He grins. "Why, the sadist, of course. I just want to watch others suffer. But don't we all deserve our own form of entertainment." He turns back to the document before us, his smirk widening. "You'd be surprised at how many people are like me deep down. Enjoying the pain of others, _reveling _in it, even. They just hide it because, like us, they've been taught it's not 'socially acceptable'. But once they find others like them, they won't be afraid to show their true nature. That's what the Hunger Games will do for us, Daelianne. It'll bring out this side of Panem, and our people will finally be put on top. Violence is encoded into human nature. We can't ignore it."

It's bad, bad that I'm getting excited at his words. Isn't it? Does it have to be?

Maybe-Maybe he's right. Could the Hunger Games really solve all our problems? I must admit, it sounds ideal. With all the twists and turns we've set up in the arena, I could continue my work on Mack Ramaye, and any other tribute I want to study. Yoriq could get his fill of violence, as could all the rest of Panem. After all, the people must like violence. Why else would action movies and fight-filled books be so popular in the Capitol? Why else would our city and all of the districts jumped so quickly into war, rather than try and find another way to end the conflict? Chentanko's right, we need violence. We _crave_ it.

I'm starting to see why the users of District DamNation labeled this project the Hunger _Games_. Maybe, now that I'm starting to truly _see_, I'll be able to play the game properly—and entertain a whole nation while doing so.

* * *

><p><em><strong>I just realized that whenever someone has a flashback, Mack always finds a way to be in it. All hail Mack Ramaye, king of flashbacks! :)<strong>_

_**If anyone would like to know all the tribute scores, I've updated the blog for this story with them (most will be mentioned in the next chapter, but if I skip any, you can check the blog). Just something to keep in mind, the scores aren't really reflections of the tributes' skill; mostly, the Gamemakers are just trying to stir the pot. You'll see the effects in the next chapter :) As always, thank you guys so much for reading and sticking with this story!**_


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